In Brilliant Fire
by Crescent Fresh
Summary: Ginny's emerging&Harry's sinking. He's down, and she has to be up for him. But in the end, when something unexpected happens, will he be able to overcome his current predicament to come to the rescue of his princess?
1. A Glimpse Into Their Worlds

**Hahaha... one hour of thinking up a plot, and coming out with nothing ended up with _this. _I guess anything goes here, though I have a rather distinct vision of the story. Some may like it; some may not, but hey! That's ok. =) All for the greater glory of the bespectacled wonder that is _Harry Potter_.**

**Disclaimer:_ Harry Potter is not my creation, never was, never will be, and like many of the aspiring authors of the fan fiction world here at ff.net, the plot is mine, and very much original, thank you very much. _**

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**_Now... onto the story with no name yet as I write the beginning... ü ENJOY!_**

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_I can't believe I'm doing this... I can do this! He's not here... He's not going to come over me... No more... no more..._

She chanted it like a mantra inside her head, as she stared at the empty page before her, inviting the quill in her hand to come scribble a few sentences, a few words, even. A wispy lock of hair escaped the loose ponytail, and she hissed in annoyance. 

She stared helplessly at the rather yellowish, but smooth page, and closed the book. She sighed, relieved, when the beautiful scarlet color with gold edges met her eyes. 

_She'd only been thinking about my loneliness at the Burrow. But still, I am so afraid...... It wouldn't hurt, would it? _

She looked out the small, rather disfigured circular window. The beginnings of a new moon greeted her searching brown eyes, its pale whitish yellow standing out vibrantly against the dark midnight sky, dotted with a few stars here and there. Some transparent clouds moved and covered the moon for a brief second- her heart stopped a little- she vaguely remembered the plunging cold and darkness when she'd opened and entered, upon orders - she shuddered to remember- the Chamber of Secrets.

_It's been four years, Gin... get over it... _One part of her seemed to argue the fright that settled quite snugly in her brain. 

Sighing resignedly, she switched her gaze again to the medium-sized red book lying in front of her, as she had done so many times in the past couple of hours. 

_To write, or not to write, that is the question. What of it? But if I choose to, then I'd be doing myself a favor... Whatever... this is making my brain hurt..._

She reached out a tentative hand, and flicked the book open. Suddenly, her skin became sensitive and she felt a gust of cold air from the window, and she made a mental note to fix that. The rather thin but comfy cover of her bed turned hot under her legs; she was stifled. Her thick socks, actually a pair of her brother's, she forgot which one, seemed so itchy compared to her loose nightgown. 

She grabbed the quill beside her and hesitated a fraction of a second before she dipped it into the dark black of the ink bottle. Watching some of the excess ink drip back into the bottle, she commanded her momentarily frozen hand to go forward and write the first two words... 

_Dear Diary,_

_______________________________________________________________________________

Somewhere, quite a long way from where she was, a tired boy lay on the wooden floor, panting for breath. Another night of his uncle's hatred, another night of sleepless fussing, and if he did manage to drift off, he'd have to endure reliving _that_ night, when _he_ died.

_Can't it stop? God... Why am I cursed? I don't want to be The Boy Who Lived and I sure as hell wouldn't want to be the damn Triwizard champion... It should've been him... he deserved it..._

It was painful to think of Cedric Diggory, to think of the inexpressible anguish on his parents' faces, of the crystalline cascades of sadness pouring steadily down Cho's cheek. 

_Cho... _

A bittersweet memory, like the crystal merchant in _The Alchemist_. He'd read it over last term, found in between a pair of Hermione's heavy books, what were they again? _Potions for the Cunning, Intelligent and Knowledgeable_? He'd thought her to be complimenting herself there, but she deserved it. What with all her top grades. 

Barely a week ago, he'd returned from Hogwarts, from the harsh realities of the Wizarding world, from home. The last time he'd actually slept peacefully, without a hint of Voldemort, or a Death Eater, or the Triwizard Cup in sight, was when Madam Pomfrey gave him that Sleeping Draught. Without the nagging but kind nurse at Privet Drive, he was alone to fend off his nightmares alone.

Alone. 

He wished. Voldemort's inhumanely cold laugh, the sneering faces of the many Death Eaters, Cedric's voice tentatively suggesting they take their wands out, his father's voice urging his beloved to leave with their son, his mother's screams for mercy...

A distinctly familiar prickling behind his eyes. He closed them determinedly, he wouldn't cry.

_No... I will NOT cry. I am strong. I am proud. I will never cry. Crying is for cowards, for the weak, for those who can't control their own emotions._

_Ah,_ said a nasty little voice inside his head, _if crying is for all those you've listed, then why don't you? Oh, yes, right, is crying right for _murderers_?_

His eyes flew open. Not Cedric, gods have mercy, not Cedric. 

_"Wands out, d'you reckon?"_

_"Er-- just take a bath, okay?"_

It couldn't be happening. It couldn't! Couldn't...

_"Lily! Take Harry and go! It's him!"_

_"Please, have mercy! Have mercy! Not Harry!"_

"Dad? Mum?" He smiled sweetly at the thought of his young parents. They certainly were legends, heroes. They were...

A smile, and they were. They were. 

He stared at the ceiling, thoughts swimming madly around his head. Hushed whispers coming in from every direction; was he going _mad_? No... Maybe he was just lonely. 

Why wouldn't Dumbledore allow him to go to the Burrow? He would be safe with the Weasleys! He really would. Why wouldn't Dumbledore allow him to go to 12 Grimmauld Place? Sirius was...

_He's dead. I forgot._

How stupid of him to remind himself of his godfather in his moment of weakness! Stupid and tactless. Hadn't Hermione said he was tactless after that kiss?

_What is this? Dementor Day or something? Why am I remembering all... _this_?_

Anything was better than trying to withstand his uncle's recently started beatings, his aunt's unbearably difficult chores, and Dudley's renewed bullying. Seemingly, a new drills company had opened, and it rivaled Uncle Vernon's. 

The first time had been the night when he came; he was disgusted to think it, home. A roaring drunk beefy... monster had banged his door open, cussing up a storm. He called the new owner the foulest words in the dictionary, ranging from the simple four-lettered words to more complex and added curses. Then, with a glint in his eye worthy enough to rival Voldemort's, he'd looked the boy straight in the eye before punching him in the stomach.

It made him double over and he came heaving for breath, only to be followed by another swift punch, and another, and another. He lost count, and the pain had dulled into hard blows on a broken soul. The blissful dark of unconsciousness welcomed him from the mind-blowing pain, not far from the lines of the Cruciatus. 

His uncle forbade him to write any letters for help. With Hedwig locked up in a cage not even kept in his room, he wasn't sure if he could hold on to his sanity any longer. 

_Screw the Daily Prophet if they think me as deranged... I don't give a damn anymore..._

The second time had been pretty much the same, all the pain and anger flowing from his uncle's fists to every part of his battered body. Emotionally unstable and physically weak as well, he was really going to have to strengthen up to survive any surprise attack from Voldemort. With Mad-Eye Moody's barking voice still ringing in his ears, he struggled to read his Defense Against the Dark Arts books and the ones Sirius had sent him. 

He wished that all the events hadn't turned out the way they did, that for once he wasn't the bold and brave Gryffindor hero, the one who everyone turned to the fight the Dark side. He wished it wasn't him who had to sacrifice everything he loved and to be the martyr that everything wasn't up to _him_. That wasn't to be, though.

Not for the first time in his life, he found himself wishing for a mother to cuddle with him, to fuss over his unkempt hair, to wipe away the tears that would manage to escape his proud barrier; a father to clap him on the back after a Quidditch game well won, to teach him how to deal with girls, to warn him against Snape and the like. 

But no, he thought bitterly, turning over only to have the soft white rays of the crescent moon on his face, he'd had to be Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, the Triwizard champion, everyone's self-proclaimed hero. Harry Potter... Harry Potter. 

Exactly who he didn't want to be. 

_____________________________________________________________________________

In another part of the universe, Nirvana to be exact, in an old-fashioned house, with the traditional white picket fence, and the lovely garden full to bursting with lilies, petunias and roses, three old friends sat, reunited, with pure crystal glasses of what was the sweetest vodka ever to be drunk. They were fondly recalling old times, the times when life was so simple, and when they actually had it. Life, I mean. 

The two males roared with rather exaggerated laughter, which alcohol tended to do to a man when drunk steadily for the past three hours. 

"- And remember, Padfoot, when Moony turned Malfoy's robes to be transparent, and he was wearing white boxers with the red heart on the crotch? Hilarious!"

This particular memory brought another bout of laughter. Their happiness was short-lived, however, when the female present gasped. 

Instantly, her loving husband was at her side, his trusty best friend in tow. "What is it, Lily Flower? Something the matter?"

"It's Harry, James. I can't believe Petunia married that uptight brute, he's abusing our son!"

Sirius gritted his teeth, and his eyes took on a dangerous spark, not unlike the one that made many people believe him to be the murderer he never was. "That Dursley was trouble the moment I laid eyes on his fat arse."

"He better not hurt Harry anymore, or he'll have us to answer to. I'll ask Merlin for permission to-" 

Lily gently cut off her husband's harangue by laying a comforting hand on his arm. "James, Sirius, you know we can't interfere. I just hope that Harry hangs in there, that he will still have hope in a world that seems to have given up all signs of it already... it just pains me to see him hurt."

Her eyes looked very bright. The tables were turned as James pulled her close to him. "Harry will get through this, you'll see, Lils. He's strong, he won't give up... After all, he takes after his mum."

Sirius smiled gently at the sight of his two best friends sharing a special moment. He felt it necessary for him to leave the room, and as he did, he brought the vodka packs along. Wouldn't be wise to leave the alcohol, besides, they wouldn't drink it, so why leave it to go to waste?

His expression turned grim as he remembered the emerald-eyed teenager, fighting for his life and everyone else's against the Dark Lord. 

"Hold on, Harry..."

_____________________________________________________________________________

_Yet_ in another part of the world, in Athens, Greece, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, otherwise known as Albus, was frowning in deep, contemplative thinking. He sighed, his worst fears already confirmed, and thought of the grief the foretold demise would bring.

Even thought he knew it from the beginning when William Weasley and Fleur Delacour presented to him the ancient tabloid, which they'd managed to salvage from the ruins of a temple in Egypt, he couldn't help but ask Amintar Calaminra, world renowned Ancient Runes translator, with many recommendations by various wizards and witches, and an Order of Merlin, Third Class for translating a rune that predicted the untimely demise of former Minister Cristof Meraux, again, "Are you sure, Amintar? Positive?"

"Dumbledore, I've been working on this for a month already, and on my father's grave, I swear, this piece of news saddens me but according to whoever wrote this, _it is the only way_." The Athenian's English was flawless. 

He looked over to the headmaster of Hogwarts and was surprised to see the one thing the Wizarding world never expected to see on his face: defeat and mounting sadness. However, that look was gone as quick as it appeared. 

"Read it to me..."

So he did. And Dumbledore listened. After a long pause, Amintar caught himself staring at the old man's face. He didn't see the traditional mellowed-down sort of look in those bright blue eyes. He saw hope for the world. Hope for a better life. Hope for _him_. 

He blushed, something he hadn't done in a long time, when he remembered his manners. "So..?"

"Very well, Amintar, thank you for your time. I'll have your Secret-Keeper flown off to the Philippine islands. May Merlin save us all from Voldemort."

Calaminra visibly flinched, but Dumbledore didn't seem to show that he'd noticed. Instead, he trilled a few soft notes, and in the blink of an eye, he vanished, followed by a trail of golden-red dust.

Amintar Calaminra buried his face in his hands, deeply aggrieved. As a child, his parents were murdered by Voldemort, thus, making him an orphan. He'd secluded himself, set up a barrier around his emotions. He'd never had any friends except _her_.

He'd been Lily's close friend in their classes together at Hogwarts. He rued the day Voldemort came into power, and killed his only friend. 

His eyes taking on a new light, he swore to himself, _I will avenge you, Lily. You and James both._

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**How was it? Horrible? A masterpiece? Something so gruesome you don't ever want to think about it again? Reviews... please! ü I'm looking forward to it like hell! ü **


	2. The Differences Between Us

**Here's chapter two ü  =) hope you enjoy it at least!**

**Please review, people! I feel so pathetic… no reviews! =(**

**On to the story!!!**

A few days later...__

Ginny sighed tiredly, and decided it was a good kind of tired she felt. The kind of tired when you know you've done something to the fullest of your extent and worked hard to achieve your goal.

She looked at what she wrote. A mess of scribbles, a lot of crossings-out, and more punctuation marks than what was necessary got the job done of expressing herself. She was satisfied; she'd been at it for an hour and a half at least. 

However, for the past four nights, when she'd stayed up, writing her thoughts away, that feeling was always present. That feeling that she was still eleven-year-old Ginny Weasley, scared to death about Hogwarts and unwittingly letting the Dark Lord use her young mind. She was still Ron's younger sister, the one whom Harry had to save. It was a hard thing to escape from, your past, she mused. She shivered whenever she felt that Tom's witty answers would appear on the smooth yellowish paper of her diary, assuring her, luring her, devouring her.__

She closed her eyes, for a while, maybe to reassure herself that she was safe in the Burrow, and not at Hogwarts, setting a basilisk on her fellow students, then opened them again to read what she had written. __

_Dear Diary,_

_Today's been quite a good one for me! _

_ When I woke up this morning, I was so excited to get out of bed for absolutely no reason. Jumping out of bed I stubbed my toe, and hopping around with one foot in the air, I kicked my desk and tripped over a chair. Well, after _THAT_ beginning, I was quite ready to start over, but don't get me wrong. My mood was still unbelievably great! All the kings' horse and all the kings' men couldn't fix my brain after it shattered due to what I saw in the kitchen._

_Because in that kitchen, were many birthday candles were blown, many wounds were healed, many scoldings forever kept in the walls, was my brother. And not just any brother. In the kitchen, at six in the morning was Ron._

_Ron! You know him, the insufferable git who can't think tactfully sometimes around Hermione, and the git who's always breathing down my neck. Well, he's also that prat who _never_ wakes up early in summer. When I say never this time, I am dead serious. Incorrigible, I am! This must be pretty important..._

_His usual time's around, eleven or half-past? He looked really harassed, by the way, so I asked him what the matter was that forced him to be here, up at such an ungodly hour such as this. _

_He wouldn't look at me, even, the nerve of him! Just kept muttering and muttering about something I couldn't quite put my finger on.  Some stuff along the lines if:_

_"...Vikky better not... He... He better... What does she see in...? Prat, the moron!"_

_He seemed really troubled, and I was getting a little bit uneasy. "Ron... _Ron. _RON!"_

_Finally, he noticed me. "Wha-?"_

_"Ron, what's wrong?"_

_He started stuttering, something he only does when he's really riled up. "V-vikky... Hermione... __Bulgaria__... Bastard!"_

_Okay! I didn't want Mum to go on about language in front of a lady; but I have to say so myself, my language and choice of words can be quite as colorful as those of all my brothers; yes, even Percy's been known to curse one time or two (Like that time when an extra drop of Madam Rhodora's Silver- Cleaning Potion dropped on his Head Boy badge)! _

_ "Shut up, you git!" I hissed, covering his mouth. I motioned outside and said in a stern voice, with _The Look_, "Talk."_

_So he did. Turns out, diary, he still isn't over Hermione, and last year's Yule Ball. I'd be a pathological liar if I said I was surprised that he hadn't gotten over it. My brother can be really stubborn and he can hold grudges like a kitten will not let go of its mother! _

_He'd finally gathered enough "Gryffindorian chivalry and bravery" to write her a letter regarding the Bulgarian Seeker. I was surprised he didn't explode from the effort of merely getting Viktor's name on the parchment. _

_Ron gave me a draft of his letter and I looked at him incredulously. That was when I knew how much he felt for Hermione. My brother, the sloppiest and messiest person ever to have survived the wrath of Mum, was saving _drafts_? Now this was love! And he was the most daft, most tactless, most stupid person ever! He just can't bring himself to admit that he's fallen for his best friend. Fallen _hard_! _

_It read, well, let me just stick the draft:_

Hermione,

How are you? Summer's great for me so far, I've been doing quite a lot. A lot of cleaning, that is. We're going to you-know-where next week, and Mum's really bossy about moving our trunks. Percy's still mad at us, and I don't think he's coming to reconcile soon. Dad's all right, despite what happened Christmas. Harry sounds fine, have you been owling him?

All right, I just wanted to know, how's Vikky? *_At this part, I groaned. Bad, bad move, Ron! The letter was sounding great!_* Is he still simpering to his Herm-oh-whatsit? Oh, right! I might be disturbing _something_! Have fun with Vikky...

Ron

_I stared at him hopelessly, and tried- I tried, diary, I really tried- to understand why in the hell the gods up there ever thought of creating such a daft prick like my brother. _

_"And her reply?" I said, icily. I knew I said it coldly, since he flinched, a remarkable talent I have over all my brothers, yes, even that other prick, Percy._

_He handed me a sheet of stationary, lilac-scented, I knew as I got a whiff. Trust Hermione to use something like this to handle Ron._

_This one read, oh yeah, I memorized it:_

Ron, *_I felt the ice seeping through my veins already at the stiffness at how the letter sounded*_

I am, and never have been, nor will be Viktor's girlfriend. We are friends, nothing more, nothing less. You have some issues to sort out, Ron, and I would really appreciate it if you fix your problems with Viktor before you have a go at me. 

On to greener pastures... I have been owling Harry, and there's something suspicious about his letters. They seem a little... forced, don't you think? Maybe he was in a sour mood; we'll just have to wait to find out. 

Good luck with those quandaries,

Hermione

_He shrugged, a destitute look settling in his features, and I shook my head. "Ron, you do know your letter was fine-"_

_And there he went again, interrupting me in that manner I really don't like._

_"Exactly! Exactly my point! And she gets mad?"_

_"Ron! You didn't let me finish! Your letter was fine until your outlandish jive got the better of you and you mentioned Viktor. You know that you tread on thin ground around Hermione when you mention him, because you can't control your iniquitous jealousy!"_

_He turned as red as a beetroot. Even the tips of his ears were beginning to redden. And he sputtered furiously, "Jealous- me? Ha! Of- of... Krum? No bloody... Me? As if!"_

_Knowing it was a no-win situation for the both of us, I just airily replied (and this was a great decision, as it turned out), "Know what, Ronnie? Herm's right! Go sort out your predicaments and come see me after you do-- I'd gladly help you win her heart."_

_I think he almost got a heart attack as I left him, with a piece of bread in my hand. _

_I re-emerged from my room about two hours later, feeling as if I'd just fought a very tough battle and lost, which I as good as did, considering I had to do a very foul essay on Restorative Draughts for that greasy git, Snape. _

_Walking to the kitchen, I was intent on eating breakfast, when suddenly..._

_"C'mon, George! You can do better than that!"_

_"I'm trying, you git! It's not as easy as it looks!"_

_"Well, coaching you's not much of a job if you won't listen!"_

_"Whoever asked you- argh! I died, AGAIN! Bloody hell..."_

_There was a pause, and a sound of someone grabbing something._

_Then-_

_"I'll do it, you kneazle!"_

_"Fine! See if you won't die in level seven when there are sixteen viruses! I wonder how they could fit all those bloody blinking... er... things in that small screen!"_

_I'd had enough and stormed in. "What are you doing?"_

_They had guilty looks on their faces; they knew they were under my mercy, and, pity for them, sometimes I had none. _

_Fred opened his mouth, "Now, Gin-gin, don't tell Mum- _

_George followed, " -or she'll yell at us- "_

_" - and our ears are still ringing- "_

_" - from her solid yelling yesterday- "_

_Together, " - so don't tell Mum!"_

_I chuckled. "I wasn't going to. Besides, I don't even know what you're doing, hence my question."_

_They sighed in relief together and George said, "Oh this? We nicked it from Dad's box of unnecessary Muggle items. It's the most fun thing ever!"_

_"What is it?"_

_They looked at each other, then beamed at me as if they'd just found a solution to world hunger, "Dr. Mario!"_

_I believed right then and there that my brothers had some screws loose. I just shook my head in dumb wonderment at their happy childishness and went on. _

_The rest of the day was spent cleaning and doing laundry. Mum was bustling around, preparing the Burrow for our departure. Somehow, I knew, that despite having to leave this house for many times, and for many different reasons, I'd always come home. _

_Then, while I was sorting out Ron's things from mine (my bra had been entangled with his boxers) we had a visitor. He was hardly someone you could call a visitor, for he only stayed for like what? Five bloody minutes? He and Mum were talking in low voices, but I heard snippets of their hushed conversations..._

_"... Getting beaten up..."_

_"... Albus knows, then again, there's that thing..."_

_"... Pick him up tomorrow..."_

_Then, in a flurry of deep green robes, the stranger was gone. I tried to badge it out of Mum, but she wouldn't tell me a single thing. I knew that Ron and Percy and Bill got their stubbornness from Mum, so I just went to my room to think._

_Kept up in my room of green wallpaper, and blue sheets, and gray carpeting, I'm here writing to you now. _

_Thinking for me is dreaming about Harry... Was he all right? How was he holding up with those Muggles? I already miss those soulful green orbs, his messy black tufts... Was this a childish whim of mine? To get him to fall in love with me? All of Gryffindor knows of my obsession with Harry Potter. _

_They say at sixteen, everything's true love. Well, I'm fifteen and I've loved this boy ever since I was eight! He's never going to notice me as someone independent, someone who is more than just his best friend's little sister, someone more than that pathetic heap of red hair and robes in that oh so cold dungeon... _

_Enough of my rambling... The winds howling outside the house is making it sway, and I want to savor the feeling of being one with the world._

_Good night, _

_Ginny_

__________________________________________________________________________

It was 4:27 in the morning when seven cloaked magical beings descended in the fireplace of eight Privet Drive. All was quiet as glittering pairs of eyes focused on them. Outside the house, there wasn't a hint that anything strange was going on. The situation was the same in number four Privet Drive. No one knew something inexplicably harsh and cruel was ongoing inside...

His groan of help was oblivious to the open-aired world. The stale air had the unmistakable smell of blood, the walls held in their deep cores the silent groans the teenaged boy only aloud to come out when _he_ was gone, the floor littered with torn paper, feathers, chains, whips, books, with blood. 

The last vestiges of his memory returned full-force as he tried to drink some water from the plastic cup that Aunt Petunia had set a day or two ago; he couldn't remember. He didn't know how long he'd been in the smallest room in number four Privet Drive. He was short of the knowledge of how long he'd been out after Uncle Vernon, he shuddered to think of that _beast_, would punch him to the sweet welcoming arms of nothingness. He also had, without a doubt, no idea as of how long he'd be conscious, seeing as his watch stopped working long ago. 

His head throbbed painfully; his fingers twitched nervously in anticipation of his uncle. The one thing he didn't want was to be caught off-guard. Harry found out that if he concentrated really hard on not feeling anything, he hurt less. 

_The limbo part's the best_, Harry decided grimly, _of this abusing thing. It's not really that bad._

He winced, jarring a particularly sore spot on his arm. _Maybe I should rethink that phrase. It's _THAT_ bad. _

 As far as he knew, his injuries were a broken right arm, a crushed lower left leg, and several deep cuts near his hair, a twisted right ankle and a sprained left wrist. Not to mention his dislocated right shoulder. It hurt to think about anything, to focus on one pain too long. 

Out of these past three weeks, Harry gritted his teeth; he'd learned not to give his violent uncle the sickening satisfaction of showing he was in pain, in any way whatsoever. If he did let out so much as a slight hitch in breathing, it motivated his uncle to hit him all the more. 

He remembered the night when he was thinking if he'd ever see Ron, Hermione, or any of the people he held close to his heart again, when Uncle Vernon had stomped up the stairs-- his heart beat faster, more erratically; his ears knew those thudding footsteps well-- and a bulky shadow appeared. He remembered the panicked feeling when he saw the rough silhouettes of handcuffs and a whip. 

That night had separated the men from the boys. Barely sixteen, and already, he'd gone through more than people twice his age, emotionally _and_ spiritually. It was hardly something to be proud of. He'd felt pain worse than anything ever before. A thousand wands pointed, a thousand voices uttering one single curse...

_Crucio_.

It felt like it. 

The small bouts of sleep he managed to get when Uncle Vernon was at work were no help, either. The people in his dreams haunted him during his wakefulness. The accusing stares, the dead voices that all said the same thing...

_"You killed me."_

One could take so much only and still stay sane. 

He closed his eyes, that way, he wouldn't have to blink. Yes, it hurt to do the slightest thing, even to breath. He was close to death, he felt it.

_Imagine, _he scoffed at himself, _the great Harry Potter, hero to us all, dying at the hands of a common, ordinary Muggle. What a weakling._

He was tired, is all. Tired of so many things. 

Tired of the unwanted fame he unwillingly received. 

Of never having the family he wanted.

Of having everything happen to him.

Of having to face this _torture_ every damn day.

Tired of breathing, of being abused, of having to endure Voldemort.  

Tired of loving, hurting, _feeling_.

He was tired, is all. Tired of so many things. 

But most of all, tired to live. 

**_Soon are eyes tired with sunshine; soon the ears   
Weary of utterance, seeing all is said;   
Soon, racked by hopes and fears,   
The all-pondering, all-contriving head,   
Weary with all things, wearies of the years;   
And our sad spirits turn toward the dead;   
And the tired child, the body, longs for bed._****__**

**- by someone I forgot =)**

**________________________________________________________________________**


	3. Trips Back Into Time

**Here's chapter three! Sorry if the chapters are only about 2000 words... Kinda short, eh? =)**

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related characters, spells, things, everything related to the wonderful world of Harry Potter mentioned in the books is not mine =) All Jk's!**

**________________________________________________________________________**

Hermione Granger fumed silently in her pastel-yellow room. The light blue curtains with yellow flowers fluttered in the breeze that the open window allowed in. However, the cool breeze did nothing to alter her fiery mood. She'd just received the most insulting letter from Ron, even worse than the hate mail she received when Rita Skeeter let out the article entitled "**Harry Potter's Secret Heartache"**.

The letter elicited bad memories... 

_The undiluted bubotuber pus..._

_"Harry Potter's well-wishers must hope that, next time, he bestows his heart upon a worthier candidate..."_

_"You are a wicked girl. Harry Potter deserves better. Go back where you came from Muggle."_

"Ron, you can be such a mindless idiot sometimes," she muttered angrily, staring at the parchment in her hands. Behind her, Pig darted about fitfully. The tiny ball of feathers hooted and squeaked a little, hovering above her bed. Groaning, the bushy-haired girl dragged Pigwidgeon away before it could leave droppings on her newly-changed beddings. 

As she sat down on her mahogany study desk to write a reply, which she intended to make icy and cold as possible, Pig stopped for a moment to study the object of his master's affections. 

She was beautiful, indeed; his deep brown eyes accepted that fact. She looked nice enough to give him a treat or two. He hooted happily when he spotted some cookie crumbs on the floor. Diving, he very nearly crashed into the floor, but months of erratic flying had given him the pleasure of pulling impossibly out of steep dives such as this.

Pig fell over and he hooted dolefully as she practically _snarled_ while scribbling away furiously. Perhaps the female was angry with Master. He wasn't surprised; Master usually did things without thinking straight. Usually blinded by anger, spite or _jealousy_. 

Yes, he'd seen the redhead write as furiously as the female. It looked like jealousy to him. Pig feasted his eyes on silvery thing on the female's table. Master thought he was just an erratic owl, but really, he just liked and enjoyed observing things and people. 

"Here, Pig," a soft voice broke him out of his reverie. Excited, the owl shot out his left leg and looked around carefully as the girl tied the letter. He loved nothing more than sending out letters; it made him feel important and useful. __

Hermione sighed wistfully as she watched Pig become smaller until he was out of sight. Why did Ron have to be so senseless, yet at the same time, irresistible? 

"Damn you, Ron Weasley…

Severus Snape scowled viciously at the pathetic sight before him. Wormtail, curled at his feet, anguish and pain written clearly over his face, was currently begging him to hurry the potion up.

"Please, Severus... Lucius is just about ready to kill me..."

He sneered ungracefully; his mother did say that her "Sevvy" lacked certain skills in that department. _Mother didn't think I'd turn out to be the sinister Potions master with no mercy or a traitorous spy, did she?_

"Well, Pettigrew, I wouldn't be so crestfallen or afraid if I were you... Think of Lucius doing away with you as his favor to the world by ridding it of one more insolent, incompetent weakling."

He knew exactly what potion the smaller man was talking about. It was a difficult one, as all the Dark Arts related potions were. It was an ancient recipe that required a lot of rarely seen ingredients that took hard work to get. The main purpose of the potion was to cause unbelievably large amounts of pain, and the acid ate up the intestines of the drinker slowly, and in the snail-like process, killing the unfortunate drinker. Thus, it was safe to say that many wizards hadn't even _thought_ of brewing the potion for centuries. The results were rather… nauseating. 

"What of the Dark Lord?" Snape was the first to break the deafening silence, oddly uncomfortable under the watery eyes of the apostate. "Does he want me to quicken the impossible, too?"

Wormtail squirmed under the beetle black eyes of Snape. "Master doesn't know yet of the plan. Lucius is going to inform him off it with Nott and Avery tonight, for his confirmation. Lucius just wants the potion ready should the Dark Lord want it to be executed immediately."

Snape nearly let out a sigh, and he was surprised with himself. His first since the inauguration. His first since _she_ was murdered. He mentally berated himself for it. "Then you might as well leave. Don't bother returning until the Dark Lord consents with the plan."

He remembered Dumbledore's words the night after the Triwizard tournament ended...

_It had been a moonless night, and the absence of the stars over Hogwarts added to the chilling effect. _

_Severus stared out across the lake, refusing to allow himself to shiver in the cold. So many things had happened, and he could pretend to others, but he was incapable of lying to himself that he wasn't affected by the death of Diggory._

_How he'd gotten into this mess, he did not know. Being a Death Eater, one must know his risks and his limits. He'd been so stupid to allow himself to be led away by Crabbe and Malfoy that starless night long, long ago. Back then, he only had anger for the world, and he was blinded by stupidity, that Muggles and half-bloods didn't deserve to live. _

_A shadow, the snap of a twig, and the faint outline of a bowler hat on the spot next to him, the light coming from inside the warm castle. He instantly knew who it was. _

_"Dumbledore."_

_It was a statement, rather than a greeting. _

_"Ah, Severus."_

_It made him want to spill out all he'd been feeling ever since he caught sight of Potter desperately clinging to Diggory's corpse. He couldn't help but trust this man, not unlike many others. _

_Dumbledore seemed to read his mind, like many other times before. A soft voice, hardly heard over the howling winds that threatened to rock the steadfast castle and its towers._

_"Gain his trust again, Severus. Do what he asks, but if it is to hurt Harry Potter in any way, I suggest you find yourself a solution, but one that wouldn't end you up receiving an untimely demise."_

_And his superior, his mentor, his _friend_ was gone. Severus sighed; he missed the days when life's bad events were when a girl turned you down or when you got a low mark. It was more complicated now, and his actions hadn't helped make everything better or simpler._

_Albus' wise words were carried by the same winds that tried to drown them. _

_Gain his trust._

_Again. _

_I will, Albus... I promise I'll try._

_I promise. _

A thought occured to him before he viewed the mental image of that idiotic nuiscance regurgitating his insides onto the tiles of a bathroom. Snape almost winced. Again, his first since the commencement. 

"Pettigrew, what exactly is the plan of Malfoy... rather, who does he intend on force-feeding this to?" Snape gestured to the bubbling cauldron.

_Aha... Exactly what Lucius said Snape would ask... _

"Oh," Wormtail brushed the inquiry off gingerly, "It's for some Muggles in Winchester."

Snape was already looking at his books, robes billowing from the air that ran through them. If he only turned around, he would've seen James Potter's former friend whisper as he pointed his wand at the black cauldron, "_Finite Incantatem!_"

In the future, Snape would rue the moment he turned his back. He should've known then and there never to trust a traitor, even if he was on the same side. 

A mere few minutes after Peter left, Snape was sweating from the heat the disgusting potion was emitting. Suddenly, the door to his dungeon quarters burst open to reveal a frightfully white Minerva McGonagall. Severus knew something serious was the matter; he'd been her student before her colleague, and he knew she got worried of only the most important of things. 

"Minerva, what is it?" He asked urgently, moving closer to her. She looked at him, face full of… was that worry? Snape peered in closer, and catlike eyes met glittering black. 

"Severus, Dumbledore's ordered you and me, along with Madame Pomfrey to go to Privet Drive. It is of importance that we get there as soon as possible."

_Privet Drive?_ He racked his brain for where he'd heard those two strangely familiar words before…

_Privet Drive, __Privet Drive__… Potter's residence! Dear god, I hope Pettigrew hasn't done him in yet…Much less Malfoy…_

A few seconds later, his dungeon was locked, and they were walking briskly, their pace getting faster and faster with each new step. Somehow, they both felt like they were running a race. 

"What is it, Professor McGonagall?"

"It's Potter's Muggle uncle…" she said bitterly; she never really liked Muggles, not that she was a supporter of Voldemort, far from it, in fact, but Vernon Dursley just added to her already bad view of non-magic people  "He abuses the child."

"And the guards? They didn't notice?"  
  


"You know things have gotten busy with the Order, now that Voldemort's had his attack. No one can take the job of protecting Potter all the time. So the wards were set up. The wards Mad-Eye, Tonks, Albus and Remus set up have been to prevent magical harm to come upon the family and Harry…"

"You mean to say that Potter's safe from the Dark Lord, but not from his own deranged uncle?"

She sighed tiredly, "I'm afraid so, Severus. Who know what state Potter's in? Near death, from the sound of it… He is in mortal peril as we speak… It seems that Mad-Eye's warning didn't really work. The Muggle just forces Potter to write letters, with the threat of death awaiting the boy if he doesn't comply."

Snape regarded this piece of information carefully. As much as he loathed James Potter's son with every fiber of his utter being, he didn't wish death for the boy. That would be… harsh.

They turned a corner, and, to both of their silent annoyances, Sir Cadogan was in the next large portrait of a sunset near an ocean. When the annoying "knight" spotted McGonagall with Snape, he jumped into action.

"My fair lady, not to worry! Don't shed a tear, for Sir Cadogan, the bold, the fearless, the bravest of them all, is here to save you!"

And he promptly fell off his steed. Both teachers paid no attention to the lunatic, intent on getting to their destination without being bothered. Tight-lipped, they walked alongside each other, Head of the Houses with most animosity between them, for once, teaming up to attain one common goal--

Save Harry Potter. 

Dumbledore rubbed his eyes laboriously, for once letting his age catch up with him. How he had tried to protect all his students, and he knew that, like all other people, he failed sometimes. He had hope in each and every one of them, yes, even those who have turned against him. Somehow, he always held on to the belief that inside all of them, there was still their innocence and a will to turn against the Dark. 

A soft trilling caught his attention, and he looked over his shoulder. With smiling eyes, he met those of his sunset-colored phoenix, Fawkes. The spirit in them had once been fiery, and impossible to defeat. Over the years, they'd dulled, just like Dumbledore's. Their eyes weren't as sharp as before, and they both certainly weren't as agile as they had once been. But their resolve to make the world a better place, a place without evil was stronger than ever, perhaps even more. 

Dumbledore eyed his long-time companion and friend equivalent. Though he was no longer the small, wrinkled and flightless being he was after he'd saved his master by swallowing the jet of green light of the fatal spell intended to bring Dumbledore to his demise, Fawkes still had a long way to go before he would regain his full strength.

"We've been together for a long time, old friend," he said leniently, sky blue eyes softening. "I failed with Tom, didn't I?"

Mournful tones followed his question. Fawkes cuddled up to Dumbledore's neck, gently nipping at an earlobe. The Headmaster was suddenly teeming with hope.

"I'm not going to fail with any more if I have it in my power not to. And I most certainly am going to save Harry Potter. I know I made a mistake, he knows it now."

His thoughts swam to the day his student's godfather fell through the veil of unknown in the Department of Mysteries.

How the black-haired boy fiercely shouted…

_"I DON'T CARE! I'VE HAD ENOUGH, I'VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END, I DON'T CARE ANYMORE —"_

_"YOU DON'T KNOW HOW I FEEL! YOU — STANDING THERE – YOU –"_

How he'd admitted to Harry the biggest flaw in his foolproof plan…

_"I cared about you too much. I cared more for your happiness than your knowing the truth, more for your pace of mind than my plan, more for your life than the lives that might be lost if the plan failed. In other words, I acted exactly as Voldemort expects we fools who love to act."_

He looked at the letter on his desk again. The content worried him. He wondered for what seemed like the hundredth time ever since the flamingo departed in a ferment of roseate. 

_Dumbledore, _

_Something's wrong at number four. I have reason to believe that Dursley's abusing Harry! His last letter was stained with blood, and I'm pretty sure that it wasn't just a tiny cut or wound, seeing as it looked like numerous pints. Can't go, you know what I'm doing right now. Please, on James, Lily and Sirius' behalf, and mine, save him. He's all I have left…_

_Remus_

Just a few minutes ago, his two Heads of Houses and Hogwarts' resident nurse had left for Surrey, after Severus demanded to know how exactly they found out that Potter was getting beaten to a pulp ("A pathetic pulp", the former Slytherin couldn't help but mutter).

As Albus Dumbledore stared out into the starry night, streaked with a few clouds, thick and fluffy and rolling along, in the wee hours of morning when the entire world was resting in deep slumber, he tried to channel all his strength to the Boy Who Lived, the boy who could very well be the Boy Who Died.

Petunia Dursley rolled over in her sleep as she felt a heavy weight descend on her king sized four poster. She opened her eyes; the pale lavender silk sheets she'd just changed a few hours ago crinkled under the pressure of her husband on the bed. The springs underneath squeaked noisily. 

She lay in that bed, silent. In all of her forty-something years, she never thought she'd be smack dab in the middle of a situation with the likes of this, reminiscing her much-hated childhood while beside her heavily snoring, and equally as heavy husband. 

Her thoughts surprisingly jumped to the day _she_ received the letter that changed it all…

_Her mother pulled her body close to hers in a mighty bear hug. Petunia Evans smiled serenely, enjoying her victory dance with her mother. The equestrienne competition had been hard, but she had pulled through. And she was basking in every minute of her glory. _

It's only right… Lily _always_ gets the attention. She's got everything, the brain, the personality… She even got the looks: beautiful red hair, large, soulful green eyes…

_She closed her eyes and twirled perfectly in time to the music. Her mother laughed softly._

_"You've been practicing, Tuni."_

_Her eyes lit up. Tuni. Her parents' special nickname for her. For the longest time they hadn't used it, since they were always by Lily's side, praising her for whatever thing she had done._

_Her mother dipped her low, and they smiled, Petunia giggling all the while. It felt so good to have all the attention for once, even if it was for a short while. _

_"May I steal this beautiful young lady away for awhile, Cassandra?"_

_They both looked up to the twinkling eyes of Edward Evans. Her mother smiled at him before gracefully twirling a squealing Petunia to her husband. _

_"She's all yours."_

_For a few moments, they danced in silence, both enjoying the quality time being spent together. _

_"Congratulations again, Tuni.__ Have I told you that I'm proud of you?"_

_She beamed at him. "Yes, Daddy! Seven times now!"_

_"Counting are we?"_

_A fast upbeat song came on, and they started moving in unison, her father laughing heartily, and Petunia laughing daintily as well. _

Daddy and Mum are _finally_ seeing me! Today must be one of the happiest days of my life! I'll tell Francine, and Anne and—

_"DADDY!__ MUMMY! Look!"_

_A bouncing redhead entered the living room, a thick yellowing envelope with a torn purple seal of some sort on the front in her hands. _

_"I'm—I'm a—let me catch my breath…"_

_Her parents looked worriedly at their younger daughter, gasping for fresh air. _

_"Is everything all right, Lily Flower?" Her father asked, Petunia and her win long forgotten. Her mum came up behind him, a look of concern crossing her features. _

_Petunia scowled heavily as her sister smiled brightly. She didn't know that the next words her sister would say would be the beginning of a new life._

_"I'm a witch."_

The much older Petunia Evans Dursley was surprised to find her cheeks a little damp, and hurried to brush the tears off her face. Beside her, her husband gave a heavy snore and murmured some incoherent words. 

She hated her sister, and that dratted old Potter. He'd been nothing but trouble for Petunia the first time she laid eyes on him. And now, here she was, unable to escape the madly envious memories she had of her beautiful sister, seeing as she saw the living testament of her love for Potter. 

The boy had also been nothing but trouble. Petunia and Vernon would be damned to hell and back again before they showed any display of love or affection for him. How they'd hope he wasn't one of them. She couldn't bear to cope with another one of _her_ kind. 

As much as she hated the boy, she couldn't wish death on him. Or any harm for that matter. She couldn't explain it, she just couldn't.

She hated how Vernon abused the boy, torturing him every night. She'd been the unwilling witness one time, when she was in the closet, cleaning out some things for the summer. He hadn't known his wife was present, hadn't known she'd watched, eyes wide, mouth covered with frighteningly white hands, afraid of the _monster_ that was her sweet loving husband. 

"Petunia?"

She very nearly jumped out of her skin. Clearing her throat, Petunia tried to answer in a calm and collected voice, "Yes, dear?"

"Never you mind."

A close call. It was dangerous ground to tread on whenever you were around Vernon these days. He seemed to sink in lower and lower in his terribly foul mood. But he never once hit his wife or son. Just his nephew.

_"Remember my last, Petunia."_

She'd sealed the charm that old wizard had placed upon the boy. Even though she didn't dare to even _think_ about admitting that she felt like she was bonded with a boy, a very weak bond, but a bond nevertheless. 

But she couldn't, WOULDN'T do anything about it. Just like how she didn't do anything to show Lily how much she'd actually loved her before her sister was murdered.

_Time… where did you go? _

_Why did you leave me here alone?  
Wait, don't go so fast  
I'm missing the moments as they pass…_

_I'll take what you give me. Please know that I'm learning  
I've looked in the mirror  
My world's getting clearer  
So wait for me this time_

****

**In remembrance of her, the girl I used to be. =)**

**Read and review please! Muchas gracias! **


	4. Battles Within

**Chapter four: sorry if it took forever and a day! =)**

**And now… the chapter that took so loooong to come out! Chapter IV:**

**________________________________________________________________________**

A blast of green light ruffled the pink hair of one of the figures crouched low on one of the grassy knolls in some part of northern England. A hitch in her breath, and her heart hammered loudly in her chest and ears. 

"Wotcher, Remus! That nearly got me, that one did!" 

Beside her, Remus Lupin had a look of immense hatred. He'd lost nearly everyone he cared about to _him_, his parents, his best friends, everyone. He wasn't going to lose any more.

He itched to go to Privet Drive, he tried hard to suppress the urge to Disapparate right then and there and beat the hell out of Dursley. What he wouldn't give to hurry to his best friend's son right now, and help him in his moment of need…

He certainly was shocked when, a few minutes before the Death Eaters arrived, Hedwig had turned up, bloody. She didn't appear to be harmed, however, and the parchment on which Harry wrote his letter had bloody fingerprints. 

_Abuse_. It had jumped to his head the minute his brain registered what Harry stated:

_I'm fine, Remus. _

A lie, if he could help it. He hastened to write to Albus at once and he could only hope that he was there to receive it. Merlin only knew what state Harry could be in at the moment. 

He was shaken out of his reverie as two soft _pops! _sounded behind them, and Nymphadora Tonks turned around to see what were the goings-on. He blocked a curse aimed for his companion  

"Get down, Tonks! Mad-Eye and Kingsley went to get reinforcements from the Ministry," he hissed, before sending a Severing Curse on one of the hooded forms. 

Even thought they were covered by Hex-Deflections and Shield charms, the Unforgivables were strong enough to penetrate both. 

He grabbed the back of her robes and hauled her with him behind a large oak tree just before –

_"CRUCIO!"_

Several voices incised the cold air, their aims missing their targets by inches. Tonks assumed a fierce glare and shouted loudly, not pausing to take in oxygen, _"Stupefy! Stupefy! Impedimenta! Petrificus Totalus! Tarantallegra! Immobulus!"_

Fresh screams were elicited, thuds were heard. Then -

A sharp breath was drawn. "Rabastan! Aurors on the right!"

"Dolohov! Mulciber! Let's go! LET'S GO! Disapparate! Now! _Now! _NOW!"

The Death Eaters that had escaped from the last attack on the Ministry started to Disapparate. Or tried to, because soon, they learned that the Aurors, who had been one or two steps ahead of them, had placed Disapparation wards five miles radius from the point where they Apparated, on Moody's orders. 

It was a mess; a lot of yelling and spells going on, with people lying down unconscious or dead (one seriously had no time to tell), miscellaneous beings scattered everywhere, Death Eaters disappearing for a second them crashing painfully back onto the ground, their departure blocked by the wards.

_"Ferula!" _ whispered Tonks, hunched over one of the fallen Aurors; she looked him over and winced at the deep and large gash on his left leg, but he would live.

Remus tended to the others who had been hit by curses, and hurried over when he spotted one who was twitching, curled in a feral position, face contorted in unimaginable pain.

_"Guarani,"  _he whispered quietly, so as not to catch attention from any of the Death Eaters.

The Auror's twitching stopped immediately, and Remus floated his body low to where the Healers were waiting. 

Somewhere on the hill, he distinctly heard the snake-conjuring spell uttered by a deep tenor, _"Serpensortia!"_

Suddenly, he was face to face with the ivory-white fangs of a large serpent. It assumed the pose to strike, the most unequivocal pose he'd seen many times before; he didn't know quite why, and he could've easily jumped out of the way, or sent the snake flying away from him, but for a millisecond, the kind of second that determined the loss or win of an Olympic contestant, he saw a flash of bright white light. 

He knew it couldn't have been the flash of a nearby spell, because it was the purest white he'd ever seen, and most flashes were either dull or of another color.

And James, Sirius and Lily's faces appeared, smiling at him, just _smiling_ at him. Not doing anything else. Just big, wide grins on their faces.

Nymphadora Tonks stared, horrified, at the sight before her. She wasn't the only one staring. Remus was standing, unmoving, in front of one off the most massive serpent any of them had aver seen in their lives.

She watched, transfixed in a trance, not unlike Remus, whose eyes appeared to be glazed over, and had taken on a glossy look, as his left shoulder took the brunt of the inevitable bite.

"No," she whispered, hands flying to her mouth.

He seemed to snap out of whatever stupor he'd fallen into and a spasmodic terror-stricken look came over his usually tired features, before he fell on the ground and the snake vanished, as the caster of the spell hissed softly, satisfied in hurting the half-breed, _"Evanesco."_

They all barely had time to register what happened before they, too, snapped out of their transfixions and started firing curses at the hastily bolting followers of the Dark Lord.

A brown-haired Auror sent an Incarcerous spell in the direction of the one called Mulciber.

_"Avada Kedavra!"_

Mulciber, restrained by thick, snake-like ropes that shot out of one of the young Auror's wand, sent the fatal spell in the direction from which the bondages came from. 

The deadly green ray missed its target, for the Auror had jumped aside at the last possible moment, and shot a nearby tree instead. The oak shriveled up and burned slowly to its death. 

_"Reducto!"_ shouted Kingsley at a wall conjured by Dolohov in his haste to escape captivity. It blasted apart, and some bricks landed precariously near their heads, but their shouts of _"Protego!"_ were enough to shield them from a Muggle death.

"Go on, the four of you! Go now! We'll take care of Remus! Go! GO!" Moody shouted furiously at four young, grim-faced Aurors. 

They ran speedily in the direction where the Death Eaters had run to. They were short of the knowledge that Rabastan had set up a fine mist, not unlike the one Harry had run into in the third task of the Triwizard tournament. Up and down reversed for the four and they were hanging from the ground over the endless sky.

"Let's try stepping forward!" shouted one of them to his colleagues. 

Reluctantly, they all did as told, and soon they were running out of sight after the fast disappearing Death Eaters.

Tonks scanned the grassy hill over the hazy air and spotted Mad-Eye running to where Remus had fallen down. The area surrounding his body was a sickeningly reddish brown, and she didn't dare think what the worst thing possible could happen to him as she ran swiftly to where he lay.

Blood was spilling out of his mouth, and he sported a dazed expression. Moody appeared to be speaking to him in a sort of gruff but soothing tone, something rare to all Wizarding folk. 

He must've felt Tonks' violet eyes on him. Without any more unnecessary words, she dug a hand inside her robes and pulled out a sharpener, the small kind which you didn't have to spin the... the _thingy_ to sharpen the... the _pencil_. Tonks never could understand how Muggles managed along without magic. 

_"Portus,"_ she whispered, unable to meet the sandy eyes of her friend and fellow Order member, who lay on the ground so helplessly. She didn't want to see anyone hurt, especially not Remus. 

"Go and bring him to St. Mungo's, girl, there's a ward reserved for this fight's casualties," Mad-Eye said. He laid a hand on her shoulder, "May Merlin help you, and the light side." 

Before she could grab any part of her lycanthropic friend, she and everyone else around her heard a low but firm voice, _"Morsmordre."_

Tonks vaguely remembered her mum telling her about how her aunts Bellatrix and Narcissa used to strut around their mansion, translating the spells and others into English. She recalled how her mother hugged her daughter's lithe form to her own body, telling her that the one that chilled her blood most of all was when her two sisters had gleefully arrived at the translation of the Dark Mark conjuring incantation.

_"You know what it means, 'Dromeda?" Bellatrix had taunted at their peaceful and undeniably docile sister._

_"It means, 'take a bite out of death'," sneered Narcissa, her already waist-long blonde hair rippling at every movement she made._

She was brought painfully back into the world by panicked and confused screams. And everything around them was suddenly plunged in blinding green light, and for a few seconds, the fighters for the light truly wondered if they were dying until it subsided, and eventually faded to a dull green shine. 

A shudder went up her spine as she looked at the not-so-dark sky before the Port Key teleported them to another part of the country. Above them, the Dark Mark shone, basking in its evil glory, as if gibing her and all who could see it:

_Take a bite out of death..._

_______________________________________________________________________

Once the magical wards the Order members had placed over the house were put down, Snape and Madam Pomfrey looked to McGonagall for orders. 

"Severus, wait here with Poppy. I'll transform and see if the Muggles are out like we'd planned," McGonagall said, eyeing warily the pale nurse, who was whispering fervently.

He nodded abruptly and she transformed, thinking only of the feline she'd become so many times before in the past. The ripple of change ran through her body and soon, in her place was a common grey tabby.

She stared at the charcoal black eyes of Snape for a moment, before leaping on to the shutters of the Dursley's rather beloved house. Merlin only knew how horrified Petunia would be if the prospect of a cat with _dirty_ paws jumped onto any part of her clean home. 

Thoughts swam like bumblebees in her head and she analyzed the situation and the possibilities of what they were about to do. The house was certainly subdued but they weren't going to take any chances. 

_Surely Dursley wouldn't REALLY abuse Potter? He's afraid of all magical people! Positively terrified, even.  _

McGonagall took a tentative step towards the gutter, and safely landed. She pawed her way through the leaves that had gathered in the depression and leaped down to the ledge of the window that was the most likely to be the master's bedroom. 

Empty. 

With a satisfied twitch of her whiskers (graying?) she rushed to the nearby tree, ignoring the few bugs that set up home at its base. Thoughts still whirling like a tornado inside her feline head, she started climbing.

_ This doesn't seem like a normal case of child abuse to me… I'll have to bring this up with Albus._

She reached a high branch, right next to _a bar-filled window_? She peered inside, and if only she was able to speak while in her Animagi form, she would've gasped aloud, and probably woken up the Muggles residing in the home next to number four.

Hurrying down the gnarled branches and roots of the birch tree, McGonagall nimbly leaped to cover more distance. Some of her bones literally creaked, and she winced. 

_I'm getting too old for this. _

She would've chuckled at the over-used line if only the situation wasn't so gravely serious. 

As soon as the Potions Master and the nurse were in her view, she changed. 

"Poppy, Severus, we need to get inside _now_. They're gone, it seems like they've fallen once again for the same cock-and-bull story," she said breathlessly. 

Snape glided towards the entrance. _"Alohomora."_

Quietly, without the slightest hint of a squeak or anything of the like, the door sprang open, careful not to jar any nearby pieces of furniture. The trio stealthily walked in, observing their surroundings. On one side of what seemed to be the living room were pictures of a great peach ball in fitted into different colored garments. On both sides were two potted plants; petunias, Madam Pomfrey noticed. There was a home entertainment system, complete with three recliners in front of it, and on the carpeted floor, a Persian rug. 

"No signs of abuse here," Snape said dryly. In truth, he was dreading having to see Potter, for fear that if what Dumbledore had said _was _true, it would cause him to remember the... _unpleasant_ memories of his childhood. 

They continued noiselessly up the stairs, taking great care not to touch the shining mahogany surface of the railing. When they reached the landing, the unmistakable stench of **_blood_** failed to escape their keen senses of smell. Their eyes met each other's before they continued wordlessly still towards the smallest bedroom of Privet Drive.

The door, unsurprisingly, was locked from the outside, and had numerous padlocks whose gold bodies were glinting from the light emitted from Madam Pomfrey's wand. 

A few moments later, and many slowly impatient-sounding _Alohomora!_'s, McGonagall opened the door at last. A fresh wave of the sickening smell reached their lungs, and all three tried not to choke or cough out loud. It made their stomachs churn, and this was something for the Snape, seeing as he was a Potions Master, he was accustomed to many different nauseating smells. 

And on the bed, if one would have enough pity to call a bunch of torn _red_ blankets piled on top of each other a _bed_, was the Boy Who Lived. More like the Boy Who Bled. Something told them that red wasn't really the original color of the blacnkets.

Seemingly lifeless green eyes stared at a space beside the door, unblinking, and all three conscious were faintly reminded of the eyes of a house-elf. They were dulled, as if they'd given up all hope of ever holding the life that had once been there one last time. 

Books were scattered all over the floor, some of the pages carelessly torn out, drops of blood smearing the texts. Nearly featherless quills and broken bottles of ink littered the wooden planks. His trunk was turned over, which explained why its contents were all over the floor.

It was a gory sight, most certainly not for the faint-hearted. It would've been useless to describe the amount of torture the walls seemed to hold in their cemented depths, the aura of immense pain the room itself gave off.

_There was _**blood.**

No use in denying the fact. 

The room also reeked of vomit; looking around, they saw what Potter had _not _been eating. They all quietly wondered how one could vomit without having anything in their stomach?

The look of agony and intense suffering on Potter's face explained everything. He was literally covered head to toe in bruises. If asked to, none of those present would've been actually able to find a spot that wasn't covered in blood. 

A bottle of dirty-looking water stood a few feet from the makeshift bed, and alongside it was a plate of food that had unequivocally hadn't been touched, as molds had started to form on the surface of the graying bread. 

McGonagall looked behind her; Snape was staring, just simply staring, at the _monstrosity_ that his eyes took in. It was as if his hawk-like gaze was daring to rival that of the raven-crowned teenager. What she couldn't see behind those eyes devoid of all emotion were the thoughts and _memories_ that were flashing in his head...

_oOo_

_"Where's that damned useless boy?"_

_An angry, ridiculously drunk man towered over a cowering fair black-haired woman. It was a sight of violence, and the little boy hiding behind a corner flinched visibly as the apparent sound of a slap was heard and a feminish cry that was forced out of his mother. _

_Her pearl-black eyes met his and frightened look that met him was one he knew well. Mother and son shared a moment of understanding before he could _feel_ what she was trying to say... _

**_Run, Severus. Run! RUN!_******

_He couldn't bear to leave her alone; he loved her too much to abandon her at the hands of this ruthless man. No, he wouldn't, he would NEVER_ _her alone, or anybody else he loved and had care for in his heart for that matter._

_With the vestiges of a quickly dying prayer of help on his lips, and the mental boost of confidence for himself, the boy hurled himself at the larger, and much stronger body of his father, willing himself not to look at the panicked eyes of his mother._

_"You pathetic brat! How dare you attack me?! HOW DARE YOU?!"_

And it was a few years later, long after he'd started at Hogwarts, after he'd seen that there _was_ a better life outside of _home_...

**_Write an essay on the Wit Sharpening potion's ingredients (i.e. where they can be found, their other uses, the other potions they are included in, etc.)_**

_The teenager on the verge of manhood excitedly sat down prepared to get lost in the safe world of knotgrass and shrivelfigs, simmers and blazes, pewter and brass. While he scratched away with his eagle-feathered quill, a gift from his mother, it had come in a set of six; his thoughts drifted to a far-off place called Hogwarts. _

_How he missed the cold walls of the Slytherin Common Room, the frequently moving staircases that usually ended up with a student getting pissed off, the maze-like hallways of the castle._

_At Hogwarts, he was safe from _him_. A sigh escaped his lips. The silence that he had come to terms with rather snugly was broken as from behind him, even the closed door of his room couldn't muffle the _BANG _of the entrance door to their home made as his father, he shuddered to think he was related to the man, opened it._

_Opened was a definite understatement. _

_"Did you know," his father said, in between gritted teeth, "that Severus here has brought shame upon our family?!"_

_He blanched, thinking furiously, _Why did you tell, Lucius?! Why? 

_The footsteps that grew louder and louder with each step towards his room, and Severus heard the pitiful wails of his mother, pleading her husband not to hit him, as she had done so many times before. And this attempt to prevent violence, too, was in vain._

_"Shut up, woman!"_

_A punch and the awful _thump!_ that obviously meant his mother had hit the floor._

_Like many times before, the deep urge to kill his father that fed off from his anger bubbled in his stomach. Unlike many times before, he wouldn't let this time pass. Enough was enough._

_"Stop that, you bastard! You have no right to hit Mum!"_

_A look of real surprise crossed his father's face before it gave way to anger and annoyance._

_They ran towards each other, limbs flailing as they punched each other, his mother desperately trying to pull them apart. He found himself saying hatefully, "You know what, _Father_? It's the quiet ones you're supposed to watch out for..."_

_He twisted his father's arm, ignoring the hiss of pain that followed. _

_"Now, the noisy ones, you can always trust them to be noisy, arrogant, _annoying_... It's the quiet ones..._ _for you never know when they can _snap_..." _

"_The quiet ones, _Father_, the quiet ones... The quiet ones like _me._"_

_OOo_

He was somewhere else, far, far away from the hell that number four, Privet Drive kept within its white-washed walls, in the smallest bedroom of the house.

The pale, ashen-faced Madam Pomfrey, however, was left behind downstairs. Long gone was the nervous one, in her place was the one who would do anything for someone in pain. She'd appeared as soon as she had caught sight of a student in need. 

McGonagall's and her shoulders jostled each other, but she paid no mind and instead, bustled towards the farther end of the room. 

"The poor dear... How we've had no idea is beyond me!" She murmured pityingly, quickening her pace.

When she didn't hear any movements of her colleagues behind her, she looked at them warily, "Well, if neither if you are going to take action, I'll help the boy! Severus, you pack up his things, all he needs for this summer and his Hogwarts things. Minerva, it would do us all a favor if you could just clear away the blood?"

They hurried to comply. Snape didn't quite see the point in why he had to pack up Potter's things; they were all obviously beyond repair anyway. There was one stubborn piece of metal that refused to be picked up by his wand. 

Muttering furiously, he bent over to pick it up. And positively froze.

"Professor McGonagall, Poppy," he barked. Both women looked up at him, wands in mid-spell. 

Their imploring looks were enough for him. "It's spiked. This mug of," Snape took a whiff, the scent of the drink that was formerly held in the metal prisons of the jug wafting into his abnormally large nose, "coffee. Has one or more potions, I'm sure of it."

McGonagall's suspicions were confirmed. "Work faster. Severus, keep that jug in this plastic," she conjured one, "and Poppy, we'll help you as soon as we're done."

Her words were calm, but the two who knew her so well heard the slightest tinge of urgency. They hastened to complete their assigned tasks. Silence resounded over the room again, but the tension was thicker, and the room's temperature seemed to go several degrees higher to the conscious occupants. 

"Oh, Merlin," breathed Madam Pomfrey suddenly.

The two teachers were at her side at once, peering over her shoulder. Harry was curled up in a fetal position, not unlike the position one would assume after having the Cruciatus cast on one. 

His eyes were closed tightly, so tightly that the veins on his eyelids were turning red. His mouth was opening and closing in what looked to be silent screams of pain and fear. Beads of sweat trickled down his face. 

The three members of the Hogwarts staff watched on, as his hands balled into fists, and his knuckles turned so white. His dark eyebrows creased together, forming a volley of emotions. His breath came in short gasps; he was obviously tensing up.

Then, after an eternity —

_"No."_

Snape sneered, though his heart wasn't quite in it, after his most unwanted trip down Memory Lane, and he was rather relieved that was all, "The boy's just having nightmares. It's normal after abuse."

The nurse glared daggers his way, and he would be fibbing if he said he was surprised. Madam Pomfrey acted like a tigress protecting her young when her patients were in any hint of danger. 

"It's not that, Professor Snape, far from that, in fact," she said evenly, "He's been drinking some potions, I don't know how many. The one thing I'm sure of is that whatever substance Potter's taking in is _Dark._"

This night, it seemed, was full of surprises, none of which were quite pleasant. Far from it, in fact. 

"We really have to —"

McGonagall's words were drowned by a retching sound that came from the direction of Harry's body, and soon, their shoes were covered in a mixture of vomit and some more blood. No one had the heart to groan or utter anything in disgust. 

The Transfiguration teacher's heart wrenched in sympathy for Potter; it hurt her to see any of her students hurt. 

His tired green eyes opened, and he looked coherent enough to speak. At first, he looked as though he couldn't recognize any of them, but then realization dawned on him.

"Professor McGonagall? Professor Snape?" he rasped, his voice scratchy enough to rival the surface of sandpaper. "Madam Pomfrey?"

Madam Pomfrey pushed the professors aside, speaking in soothing tones, "Mr. Potter, please, do not strain yourself. You'll be all right soon."

He did not appear to be able to be calmed down, however. On the contrary, he was getting hysterical, "What's happened? Has there been an attack? Why hasn't anyone told me?!"

"Mr. Potter! You are only worsening your condition! Now, please! Just keep quiet, and we'll bring you to Hogwarts!" McGonagall said firmly, closing her eyes to keep them from seeing the pitiful sight.

His eyes now wild, and his limbs thrashing about, it was a miracle none of them got hurt. "Where's Dumbledore?! What's happening?! Why are you all here?!"

Snape rolled his eyes, and like the sneer earlier, he didn't really mean it, and prayed to heavens above to give him the patience to try to stun him with as little pain as possible. _"Stupefy."_

Harry's emerald orbs rolled back into his head, not unlike Snape had done just before, but in a different manner. His chest, which had been heaving to take in gulps of air, relaxed visibly. 

"Seriously, Severus, was that –" Madam Pomfrey started, tutting at him. 

"Yes, it was necessary," cut in the sallow-skinned man, before levitating the trunk. "Professor McGonagall, Madam Pomfrey, you go ahead. Bring Potter to the Weasleys. They depart for 12 Grimmauld Place the day after next. I have to speak with Dursley."

He spat out the last word as if it were a filthy bit of trash, which, unfortunately, it was. 

"After you arrive at the Burrow, go to Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall, you inform the Headmaster of our findings, while you, Poppy, go to your medicine cabinet and get all the things necessary for Potter's recovery. And when you get back at the Weasleys', make sure the wards are secure, and if possible, strengthen them."

He was ready for this — that was made blatantly obvious. 

With a last flourish of their spells, the two women departed number four, Privet Drive with as much noise as they entered, leaving nothing but a note, and with the trunk of the Boy Who Lived, and the Boy Who Lived himself, floating in between them.

Meanwhile, in the steadfast home of the very normal, and the very much in trouble Mr. Vernon Dursley, Severus Snape sat comfortably in the beige leather couch, picking up a magazine on the current stocks in England. 

_Muggles are dull_, he thought, thoroughly enjoying himself as he waited jovially for the Dursley family to arrive home.__

**________________________________________________________________________**

**Thanks to the few reviewers who actually took the time to comment on my story, your reviews are taken deeply into heart =)**

**_Mooses007: I rather like the poem at the end of chapter two myself. Thanks! =) Why don't you write some stories of your own? I bet they'd be great! _**

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**_Kurbani: I don't think I'll change the title. I like it a lot! =)_**

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**_sillypaulie: Thanks! Hey, update your story soon, okay? You got me sitting on the very edge of my seat! =)_**

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**_dementorchic: Yeah, my heart wrenches for our bespectacled hero too! I'm going to review _****The War_ and your other stories! They're great!_**

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**_Gryphonmistress: I posted chapter one, two and three at SIYE. Love the site! =)_**

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**Chapter five: it's a promising one! =)**


	5. On a Scale of Hurting

Harry Potter

**Chapter five: a feast for your eyes =) [I hope!]**

**Thanks to all those who reviewed: you have no idea how much you make me happy! Ü Thanks a lot!**

**And oh yeah, just a warning for all you people who want a fic to last into his sixth year: It's gonna end at the same time before the Hogwarts term starts. J**

**I am not capable of writing something that can be as long as a year in Harry's schooling; I simply will run out of ideas (read: Life of a Flower) I lost my idea for _that_. **

**And I have a penchant to be overly descriptive sometimes, so forgive me! **

**_And _this fic will most likely go into one scene and the next scene will be what other people are doing at the same time as the previous scene. **

**Get me? Sorry if I'm like this! **

**The reason as to why it took such a looong time to come out: Went to ****China**** for one and a half weeks! **

**Anyway, enjoy! ………**

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_Far across a great distance, away from the safe haven the Burrow provided for Harry Potter, his unconscious self was struck with deep anger caused by the turn of events, which was a far cry from his physical vulnerability._

_In the unmerciful chill of the dark dungeon, his brows furrowed, creating shadows upon his deathlike face. He closed his crimson eyes, and brought his hands to his temple._

_"Do tell me, Mulciber, how the Aurors came to know about our attack in __Essex__?"_

_The aforementioned wizard's eyes grew panicked. He looked alarmed, and turned to his fellow Death Eater and best friend with a silent plea for help, very well aware of the fact that if her tried to lie, he would be tortured for information or much worse, killed. _

_"I-I don't know, master. . . . Maybe. . . . Maybe Potter's been having dreams again and he's taken care to inform the Ministry of our plans to attack. . . ."_

_He was indeed fortunate that the Master's eyes were closed, and he couldn't see the developing panic that his actions were giving off. What Mulciber didn't know was the Dark Lord was highly skilled in Legilimency. _

_And the Dark Lord was never known for wasting his skills._

_"Why, Mulciber! Are you," he assumed an expression of shock, and gasped, "Afraid of me? Why is that so?"_

_One could only imagine the inner turmoil that Mulciber was suffering. It was a wonder that he kept his cool. Or tried to. With a gulp of fear that he tried his hardest to conceal, he said, trying to look at anything apart from Master's mocking eyes, "I'm not afraid, my Lord."_

Wrong move, _Mulciber winced inwardly as those slits of red clouded over with unsurpassable rage. _

_"Liar!" he hissed venomously, and Mulciber shrank back, as if trying to shield himself from the inevitable. "You have committed a grave offense in lying to me, Mulciber. All of you know that I despise liars!"_

_Turning to one of his cloaked followers on the side, who exists merely for the small job of opening the dungeon door, he said, "Bring them in." Then, the Dark Lord settled down, a satisfied grin flitting across his face, but the smile didn't quite reach to his eyes. It never would. _

_Mulciber was confused but he clearly was relieved. The tiny breath that escaped his semi-parted lips that was so because he was on the verge of begging for forgiveness showed his release of tension. Little did he know that that tension would flare up again; his opulence was short-lived as it quickly paved way for his imminent fear._

_The metal bolts squeaked as they were unhinged. The creaking of the chains and screws turning added to the eeriness of the ambience lingering in the unnerving, damp underground chamber._

_For a soundless second, the dimly lit room's stone floor was warmed by the reflection of the dancing orange embers of the torches lighting the equally dark hallway. _

_The Death Eater whom the Dark Lord gave orders to barked into the castrating caliginosity, "They're wanted."_

_Another few moments of anxiety and apprehension.__ Then, the ostensibly glowing reflection of the incandescence on the algid ground was replaced by the silhouettes of what looked to be another Death Eater, judging from the unmistakable outline of the hood and robes, holding the hands of a. . . . child?_

_Whispers were exchanged, and the hushed voices wouldn't have been heard if it weren't carried by the wafting scent of burning wood, from the torches, unequivocally. _

_Yes, it was definitely a child, Mulciber decided, as soon as he heard a high-pitched squeal and an angry deep voice._

_The disturbing silence descended again, before- _

_"Daddy!"_

_ A short bounding figure ran to the man in the middle, rich, red curls bouncing behind her. She was wearing a light green frock, complete with white frills on the neckline and on the hem. Holding her hair in place was a matching green headband. A wide smile formed on her cherry lips. _

_At catching a glance of her father, who most probably shadowed their homestead so rarely, her happiness was discernible. She charged enthusiastically at the astounded man and hugged him, her head reaching only his middle._

_And at the look of pure fear that crossed his face at the sight of her, her confusion was unfathomable. _

_"Sandara?" he said weakly, not daring to believe his eyes, _not wanting _to. His sweet little girl, here at their meeting place. He felt as if he were about to pass out. It was common Death Eater knowledge that once a family member or a loved one was in your presence and the Dark Lord's, it was a way of conviction. _

_A conviction that never failed to convince._

_His ears detected booted footsteps outside drawing nearer and nearer. The shadows splayed across the floor once more, but this time, they weren't as detailed; the fiery flames must've been dying. _

_His eyes smarted as they suddenly were very bright; his heart started beating faster and slower at the same time as he heard the tear- stained voice of his wife. _

_"Malcolm?" _

_He wouldn't have been able to recognize his wife if only it weren't for her voice, which was a beautiful, tinkling sound. Her russet hair that their child inherited hung in clumpy strands, and her face was smudged with the remains of her ruined mascara. _

_Her appearance was a far cry from that of which she usually kept in the presence of all the other pureblooded families. _

_"Carmine?"_

_A humorless laugh rang throughout the chamber, the walls responsible for the dying echoes. "Adorable, isn't it?" The Dark Lord stood up, and walked swiftly beside Mulciber. "This family reunion of sorts?"_

_The cold sneer of the Dark Lord was directed towards the redheaded woman who was eyeing her child and husband, frightened. Gliding towards her, he said, "Mrs. Mulciber. . . . Carmine, I presume your name is?" _

_Mulciber watched his wife nod quickly, her pale face an emotional storm. _

_"Did you know that your husband here," the Dark Lord cocked his head slightly towards the Death Eater, "is a liar?"_

_Sandara peeked from underneath her auburn spirals with the same hazel eyes her father possessed. Her mother's weary gaze locked with her wide-eyed one. _

_The Dark Lord's attention shifted to the child, who clung to her father fiercely, refusing to let go. She stared at the man with the snakelike eyes defiantly, still unaware of what this man who threatened her Daddy and Mummy could do. _

_He chuckled mirthlessly. It wasn't a surprise to any of those Death Eaters present. Their master usually did things with irony. In all actuality, they all pitied Mulciber, none of them wanted to be in his position, with their family members at risk. But they didn't dare interfere; it would only secure their untimely deaths. _

_Within a moment; in a swift motion, dark russets clashed horribly against a sickening pale white, as a thick lock of hair from the child was suddenly in the vice-like grip of the Dark Lord. The slight rustle of the part of her hair that stood up a little, the growing baby hairs at the top of her head, to stress the point exactly, indicated just how terribly close he was. _

_"Tell me, child, have you heard of the Dark Lord?"_

_Mulciber instantly regretted all those hasty cover-ups he had had to invent in order for his daughter to not find out the real reason why Daddy couldn't come and see the unicorn she'd drawn, or read her stories of meadows with butterflies, or mighty kingdoms with kings and queens. _

_With questioning in her suddenly huge chocolate eyes, Sandara shook her head slowly. "Who's the Dark Lord?"_

_This simple inquiry extorted another chortle that lacked in humor from the man in question. He ran his fingers down through the lock of hair he had in the palm of his hand, painfully untangling the curls that were naturally tangled._

_A wince graced the angelic features of Sandara. "Let go! You're hurting me!"_

_He let go of her hair instantly, and turned to Mulciber, who had not moved at all since seeing his family. "A beauty, isn't she, Mulciber? And an honest one at that."_

_He put an emphasis on "honest". _

_"One can ruin your faith with casual lies, Mulciber, remember that."_

_The Dark Lord turned once again to the child, and knelt to her level, his breath once again causing her hair to dance. "Now, to your question, Sandara. The most the Dark Lord does is hurl shadows unto the light side, because on that side are fools who use their magic for fighting him, when they could do the right thing, for once, and help him. _

_"He is hated, fought against, feared. But all he wants to do is prove that only Pureblooded witches and wizards are worthy of living. After all, what is the point in having magical powers if you are the son of a common Muggle?_

_"And we all know that Muggles don't deserve to live," he spat viciously, obviously remembering what his own father had done, many, many years ago. _

_"Many serve him, that is important for you to know. Many follow the Dark Lord, despite what the imbeciles at the Ministry could do to them. They cannot operate openly, however, because they will surely be hunted down, and therefore, the Dark Lord will be left alone, without any of his followers. He cannot then proceed with his plans of eliminating those unworthy half- bloods and Mudbloods._

_"But should they get caught by those Muggle-loving fools they call Aurors, they will not hesitate a millisecond to announce their loyalty and pledge to the Dark Lord. _

_"They're his Death Eaters, and they _are _loyal."_

_His eyes turned to those of each of his Death Eaters in turn, penetrating into their souls, before speaking with firmness and certainty, "They _are_ loyal."_

_No one dared to move, as if the spell of his powerful tale was Then, the Dark Lord continued with the story of himself. _

_"Some aren't as loyal as each other, and they know that their betrayal of the Dark Lord has a terrible price to pay. If they are unaware of what he is capable of doing, should they turn against him and his followers, then what the Dark Lord will do to them will make what he is competent of painfully obvious."_

_Getting into the spirit of his little "story telling", the Dark Lord stood up, and walked slowly away from Sandara, and directed towards her mother._

_"They are all in the right side to fear and respect greatly the Dark Lord, for he is the one who can do thing worthy of your awe. He is the one who will bring the Wizarding world to justice. _He is the one who will prevail._"_

_He circled Carmine like a hawk does his chosen prey. She shivered unconsciously; he had that effect on people. "The Dark Lord hates those who choose the wrong direction and deceive him. He hates blundering and conniving fools. But most of all, he hates half bloods, Mudbloods and liars._

_"The English language, as well as any other language known to mankind, is insufficient to describe how much he loathes those who possess magical powers, but aren't of pure magical blood."_

_There was a very pregnant moment when he paused, allowing them to absorb what they had just heard, for surely, his dark accounts of all his deeds were unnerving. The tension in the air grew stifling. _

_A small voice broke the silence. "But who _is_ he?"_

_The Dark Lord himself whirled around, the impetuous mobility instigating the fluid _swishing_ of his robes. In an alacritous point, he was once again at the side of Sandara. _

_"My, my," he murmured, his breath causing her to blink repeatedly in succession, "Aren't you an inquisitive little girl. A little too impudent for my liking, but inquisitive. I like that."_

_Returning to her initial inquiry, he asked, "Tell me, child, are you afraid of the Dark Lord?"_

_She nodded apathetically after a long moment's hesitation. "He sounds mean to me. And scary," Sandara added._

_The glint of malice that the Death Eaters had come to familiarize with so well appeared in his eyes.__ Then-_

_A deadly whisper._

_A hiss of annoyance._

_"Do you _really_ want to know who he is?"_

_"I've been telling you again and again. Yes!"_

_"In time, then. . . . I could also tell you where he is right now!"_

_"Really?"_

_The Death Eaters and her parents held their breaths, as Voldemort bent down to her level, and put his mouth dangerously close to her ear. _

_"But of course. He's standing right beside you."_

_She gasped, terrified, and tearing her arms off her father, she made a mad dash for her mother. "Mummy!"_

_"Yes, run," the Dark Lord said, undaunted. "Everyone does, but I'll carelessly cut you and laugh while you're bleeding."_

_Carmine wrapped her arms lovingly around the small, quivering body, and pulled her daughter close to her, and moved forward, in an effort to shield the child's body with her own in the case the Dark Lord chose to attack her._

_"Now, you'll see what happens to liars around me, Sandara," the Dark Lord said, advancing towards her father. "My followers have seen it many times before, yet they still try and hide the truth from me. But I, Lord Voldemort, always find a way."_

_Mulciber braced his body for pain as he found himself at the receiving end of his master's wand. But all the preparation in the world would've been able to get him ready for the immense pain that followed. _

"Crucio."

_The word uttered with impossible ease and boredom caused Mulciber tremendous amounts of pain. He hurt in places he never knew existed; the lines obscuring his vision were rapidly shrinking then expanding again. He felt as if his limbs were being torn off, as if someone was pricking his skin one by one._

_He bit his lip in order to keep the cry that tried to emerge from being released, and in all his agony, he didn't notice that his palms were bleeding for his nails had dug into the now pale surface. He screwed up his eyes, taking a stab at the chance that he could concentrate on something else, something that wasn't in the same league as hurting. _

_He distinctly heard a far - away voice yelling, "Daddy! DADDY!" and he could only hope that the Master hadn't done the same to Sandara or Carmine. _

_Then, as quickly as the pain erupted like long-awaiting volcanoes, letting out all its majestic rage, it stopped. Mulciber had no conscious remembrance of falling on the stone-cold floor, but when he opened his eyes, the tips of someone's shoes were extremely close to his eyes. He closed them again, anticipating the harsh blow of a kick._

_It didn't come. . . . Instead. . . . _

_A cruel voice._

_"Get up."_

_Trying his damnedest to ignore the after-effects of the Cruciatus curse, which was quite a difficult task, he picked himself up off the floor, wishing his family didn't see him as a weak person. _

_As soon as his feet were firmly planted on the ground, a thick glob of saliva found its way onto his cheek. He didn't dare wipe it off, just standing unblinkingly as it slivered its path down his chin, his neck._

_"Had enough?" Voldemort asked coldly, his gaze penetrating right through Mulciber. He didn't wait for an answer. "Dolohov, bring them to me." He inclined his head a little bit to his left._

_Dolohov kept his head bowed, and whispered softly, but loud enough for Voldemort to hear, "Yes, my lord."_

_For a split second, best friends' shoulders collided, and both stiffened. Both froze momentarily, both moved away abruptly. They didn't show any other indication that they'd physically connected. Perhaps it was the over domineering way their Master ordered Dolohov to bring Mulciber's family forward that brought that nagging little thought in both their minds that it was over. Their best friendship. . . . _

_Dolohov remembered that day well in Hogwarts when they'd first met, already showing the true, undeniable characteristics of a real Slytherin. . . . _

_The memory going through Mulciber was of the one when an Auror shot the Cruciatus Curse*, meant for him, and Dolohov had jumped at the last minute in front of him, guarding Mulciber's body with his own, at the last possible minute. . . . _

_They knew it._

It was over_. _

_Their camaraderie was over the moment the Dark Lord voiced his orders. The moment Dolohov accepted._

_"Please," Carmine whispered, a soft sound barely capable of cutting through the cold dungeon air, as he roughly guided them, making the mother stumble a bit over a slightly raised stone, "Remember the years, Andrew, remember the years."_

_He was confused, but didn't even try to ask her what she meant. Voldemort was nodding approvingly, a satisfied smile plastered on his unnaturally pale face. "Good."_

_"Good," he said again, as Dolohov let go of the two female Mulcibers, therefore, taking away the balance they had come to find in him as he none too gently pulled them into position. "Now. . . . This _will_ wrench my heart, but. . . ."_

_Mulciber dreaded the next words to come out of his master's mouth more than anything else he'd been truly afraid of in his life. _

_". . . .Andrew, you are best friends with Malcolm here, am I correct?"_

_A quick nod._

_"And you don't deny it, do you, Malcolm?"_

_An equally as quick shake of the head, no._

_"Well," Voldemort said, his countenance giving off glee in a twisted sort of way, rubbing his hands against the other, "You, Malcolm, have the honor of being one of the witnesses to your beautiful family's torture, to be taken care of your closest, almost-brother like friend. . . ."_

_Two hearts dropped, two brains went numb, two looks of shock that were attempted to be dulled appeared._

_"Ah, yes," the Dark Lord said, averting his gaze from Sandara and Carmine to the face of his Death Eater, "Andrew. . . . If you please?"_

_Mulciber, on instinct, moved quickly towards his wife and daughter, intent on protecting them. With a casual flick of the Dark Lord's wand, he found his back aching, along with the back of his head, plastered to the stone wall, unable to move. Aghast, he strained as much as his invisible bonds allowed him to, trying not to draw attention to himself. _

_Voldemort _did_ see his futile attempts, and glided soundlessly towards his follower, the graceful movement nearly beautiful, if not portrayed as so silent and deadly. "This should give you a _great_ view, Malcolm," he whispered, his voice so quiet yet, because of the room's stillness, it seemed as if he'd shouted._

_"Do it, Dolohov," he ordered. _

_Dolohov wasn't sure what to do, whether to obey his master, and gain pure hatred from his best friend, or not to follow, and surely get the Cruciatus, or even worse, death from Voldemort._

_After a millisecond that seemed like a lifetime of sorting out the possibilities and what to do, Dolohov looked Mulciber directly in the eye._

_With mounting unease forming at the pit of his stomach, which churned uncomfortably, Mulciber watched on helplessly. He could do naught else. _

_"I am a man of little patience when I desire something done," the Dark Lord seethed. "Do it, now. Do it now, you incompetent idiot."_

_Dolohov regarded Voldemort with high abhorrence, deciding frantically what to do._

_"Do it, or I will force you to," threatened the Dark Lord, this time, with a malicious edge to his clipped words. "Believe me, Andrew, you wouldn't want that. . . ."_

_He didn't move, he wouldn't.__ Instead, he let his mind wander and thought to himself why he wouldn't want the Imperius cast upon him? The feeling was one of blissful light headedness, and he presumed it was how one would feel after a good dose of the Muggle drug, Ecstasy**, they called it. _

_He closed his eyes, the darkness coming in from the side, just in time before—_

"Imperio!"

_As all the others whispered and yelled before, the word bounced right directly off the walls, its sound reverberating throughout the cramped dungeon, as if a speeding invisible sphere of sound that wouldn't rest._

_A beautiful, hazy trance came over him. He was swimming through fluffy white clouds, he swung his arms with surprising ease. He felt good; he was _free_!_

Dolohov. . . .

_Hmm?__ He tilted his head towards the slightly commanding, but otherwise friendly voice. Yes?_

You want to, you know it. . . .

_What do I want?_

You will, I'm sure. . . .

_What? I will what?_

Will you do something for me?

_. . . .Ok, sure. . . ._

Cast it. . . . Cast the spell. . . .Cast it on them!

_Cast what? What will I cast?_

I've told you. . . . Cast it, Andrew. . . .The _Cruciatus Curse_. . . . Cast it. . . . 

_On whom?_

On them. . . . On the woman and the child. . . .

_But. . . .__ It will hurt them. . . . I don't want to—_

Incapable fool! I'm not asking you, I am telling you! Do as I tell you. . . . 

_A moment's hesitation before the cold air was viciously slashed apart by various screams and shouts—_

_"Crucio!__ Crucio!"_

_"Finite Incantatem!"_

_The two spells overlapped each other. Two green rays headed for the direction of the female Mulcibers; the white one's destination the caster of the Cruciatus Curses._

_Dolohov fell— his mind immediately cleared of its foggy state, even before his impact on the hard floor. He was in the possession of his own will again, he could see clearly, now._

_Everything seemed to be in slow motion for Malcolm— the sound of his best friend's fall wasn't as loud as those of the two— Sandara was screaming, the indescribable torment she was going through apparent on her youthful face— soft whimpers escaped the prison of Carmine's mouth— The surrounding Death Eaters glance at each other awkwardly, not wanting to meet the sight with their eyes— Dolohov stared at his hands, unable to believe that he had caused his goddaughter and his best friend's wife so much anguish— Malcolm Mulciber didn't notice the lone tear that cleared a path down his pale cheek over the noise—_

_The Dark Lord laughed mordantly; it was the most evident sound amongst the unbeatable noise around him. Another family ruined for life. Another friendship broken. It was all almost too perfect. _

_"Yes, I do believe you won't lie to me in the future, hmm, Mulciber?"_

_His laughter would echo in the minds and hearts of the broken family before him, just as their screams would in his. _

_Harry's red eyes gleamed positively with cracked delight as he kept on laughing and laughing—_

________________________________________________________________________

"It _was_ most fortunate that we'd gotten word of it before long. Goodness only knows how much longer the poor boy could take before he — never mind. We were lucky," Madam Pomfrey said, after a few moments' pause. 

The two Hogwarts staff members had just walked Apparated a mile from the Burrow, since the Weasley house had wards around it, just like at number four. After Flooing to Hogwarts, where Madam Pomfrey had nimbly picked out her strongest healing potions and some books, they'd sat down to wait for Dumbledore's instruction. 

Mrs. Weasley regarded what her two old mentors had just told her with a mixture of horror and amazement. "Bless the poor dear, we never had the faintest bit of a clue! I even see his discarded letters when I clear Ron's wastebasket. He seemed all right!"

She chanced a quick darting look at the direction where Harry lay on the couch, vulnerable and very much obviously in pain. What Madam Pomfrey had declared just a few minutes ago sill rang through out her mind. 

_***_

_"Severus _was_ right. The drink in the mug was tinged with— oh Merlin."_

_"Do tell us what's wrong with the boy, Poppy."_

_"It's not what's wrong with the boy. It's the potion that the drink in the mug was mixed with!"_

_"Well?"_

_"Molly, oh dear, it's a potion, a Dark one, that's one of the most complicated known in our world. I've never seen a more difficult potion to brew, this including the Polyjuice potion, of course! It states here that once drunk, any wounds that might be inflicted on the drinker twenty minutes after the swallowing wouldn't respond to magical or Muggle treatments. . . ."_

_"What do you mean to say? That Potter will not heal?"_

_"No, no, Minerva, he _will_ heal—"_

_"That's all we need right now. If he will heal, that's perfectly all right. We just need him alive and well, no matter how long it will take."_

_"Exactly my point!__ It will take twice as long for him to heal normally, without any outside help whatsoever. And even so, the effects of his wounds, however big or small, will always linger. Over the years, they will eventually heal, but it takes a long time. A very long time. "_

_***_

"Well, Molly," McGonagall said with a heavy sigh, "All of us seemed to have lacked betterment in the judging department. I can speak for all of the Order's members when I say with all honesty, that we really were too tied up with all the goings-on of the summer, that we have, most unfortunately, forgotten about Potter."

The three women shared a minute's pondering, before Madam Pomfrey voiced her worries, startling a rather sleepy George, who was on his way down to get a cup of hot chocolate, in an attempt to soothe him to sleep. 

"I wonder how Professor Snape is doing— I know he hasn't what you exactly would call a soft spot for Potter, but when matters concern a student of his, like all teachers, he won't fail to guard them." 

They didn't see the look of plenary bewilderment that resided in his brown eyes— they didn't quite catch his ascent up the stairs, his cloth-clad feet making soft, padding thuds that were hardly loud enough to be heard. In fact, they didn't see him at all.

_A few seconds later. . . ._

"Fred! Wake up, you big lump!" George pulled on a foot that was sticking out of the blanket. 

Some incoherent, mumbled words were educed from underneath the gray, mass of his twin's blanket before the foot was unceremoniously pulled back into the warm confines of their thinning quilt. 

"Wake up, you sodding git! McGonagall and Pomfrey are here!"

He was up and about as quick as the legendary strike of lightning. "Ho, there, George, I might've not heard you right, for my ears are most probably crusty with the blessed earwax that our ears seem to develop during slumber. Are Minerva and Poppy really here?"

"I believe you are on the accurate side on the earwax issue, dear brother, but what I'm saying is true. They _are_ here, and—" he hastily added upon seeing the suggestive look on his brother's face, "— and they're not here to visit us, because they miss us terribly so. They're talking to Mum!"

On his feet, and already pulling on his burgundy bathrobe, Fred said incredulously, "Surely they haven't only found out about the prank we pulled off on the trophy room? This is way earlier than the time I'd expected they'd find out about it."

George shook his head, pulling his brother towards Ron's room. "It's about Harry. Something bad's happened to him. _They were talking about Snape helping Harry!"_

They looked at each other, halting, their faces mirroring the other's. The resistance Fred had been putting up suddenly died. 

"We have to get Ron," Fred said grimly, pushing the door open to his brother's room. The violent shade of orange was thankfully dulled by the night's veil of darkness. Faint snores floated along with the night air, its source from the low bed on the farther right side of the room. 

Fred and George shared another glance, snickering quietly at the sight of their brother's opened mouth, with drool leaking out. His face was illuminated by the silvery luster of the moon, creating faint outlines of his features. 

They drew nearer, and, once Fred cast a Silencing Charm*** over the tangerine room, George put his mouth alarmingly close to Ron's ear, so close that he had to move away a few inches, due to the rather unpleasant feeling of earwax on his nose. 

Rubbing at the tip of his nose irritably, George turned to Fred, who urged him on with a not-so-gentle shove, "He's got to set his priorities straight. He's too hung up on Hermione to even clear his bloody ears!"

Two withering looks were thrown towards their brother, who snored audibly more then ever, before—

"RON, WAKE UP! UP! UP! UP YOU GET!!!"

No reaction was drawn whatsoever from their brother by his yelling. The snores got louder still. 

"That's no surprise, George—"

"— he sleeps like the dead, Fred—"

"—All Weasleys do," they finished in unison. 

A cognate intuition struck them both at almost exactly the same moments. 

Fred gestured towards their youngest brother, "You do the honors."

His twin had already conjured a bucket – its plastic was peeling horribly — of ice-chilled water, and, promptly dumping its contents on the bed before them, said, "It would be my pleasure."

"ARGH!!!"

_Thank heavens for that Silencing Charm_, George thought with a grimaced wince. 

The newly-awakened, and very much angered Ron glared at them with a fierce look in his eyes, the tips of his rather large beginning to be tinged by a dull robicund color. 

"_We're_ _very sorry_, Ronniekins, if you were in the middle of the shagging Hermione part in your dream—"

His face turned the same shade as his wallpaper, and his mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish out of water, which was quite amusing, because considering his current _condition_, he very well could've been a fish. 

"— but this really is a matter of urgency, bro, for McGonagall and Pomfrey—"

"—have come!" George finished, with a harried expression settling into his eyes to replace the 'vacant expressions' Lucius Malfoy had said all the Weasleys all possessed that day in Flourish and Blott's, long, long ago. 

Ron's face clouded over once more, but not with the previous embarrassment. It was more on the incredulity side. He gasped— sending droplets onto the window, the impact causing soft, splattering sounds.

"What are you two going on about?! Don't tell me— Merlin! Have you two been sneaking pints from Dad's Firewhisky again?"

Fred assumed a look of total innocence, which usually failed to convince anybody. "Ron, I am _appalled_! Surely you don't think so badly of us! We _are_ telling the truth!"

"Oh, really," a cocky voice came from the doorway's direction, "Were you telling the truth the _last time_ you snuck drinks from Dad's stock? Down like a players fallen of their broomsticks, and _still_ denying it— that was a laugh—" 

The three male Weasleys who'd been speaking so intently jumped like three cats just splashed with water. Their heads swiveled to the left in flawless unanimity, to the doorway, where their youngest sibling stood, in her brownish yellow pyjamas, her hair in a tousled style, her left eyebrow raised up, arms crossed in an egotistical fashion.

"Surprised, brothers?"

"How did you—"

"How long were you—"

"ARGH!"

________________________________________________________________________

"Actually, Minerva, I'm not worried about Severus," exclaimed the nurse, adjusting her sliding robes a little. Beside her, Mrs. Weasley worriedly sipped her chamomile tea, frequently darting concerned looks at Harry's way. 

McGonagall brought her finger to her lips, and settled into the worn tan couch, enjoying the soft, shabby feel of the cloth, but not daring to say so. "Why ever so, Poppy? He is, after all, still our colleague."

Madam Pomfrey nodded understandingly, "Yes, yes, I know that Minerva. And I _do_ think that he is a perfectly scholarly man who can wield powerful magic against enemies when threatened."

"Then, Madam Pomfrey," Mrs. Weasley said, uncomfortable with calling her old school nurse by her first name still, even after long years from graduating at Hogwarts, "Who are you worried about?"

"Vernon Dursley, the poor man!"

Exactly above them, in an orange room to be more exact, a boy named Ronald lost his mind completely.

__________________________________________________________________________

"ARGH!"

Ginny bit her lower lip, trying to no avail not to let the smile that was threatening to submerge finally break through. The last one came from Ron. Apparently, he was speechless. She giggled at the thought of her brother dying from the thought of the twins implying his doing the deed with Hermione. 

In a few quick strides, Ron had grabbed her roughly by the shoulders, shaking her violently and roaring in her ears, not to mention that fact that she was getting rather soaked from his hands and arms. "How long – GINNY! Why didn't you— what did you hear?! Gin, how could— ARGH!"

In the next second, the twins had moved to their sides, as well, Fred sporting a highly bemused grin, George clapping his brother's back buoyantly, chortling. 

"Absolutely wonderful, dear brother, that new word of yours. Very. . . . intellectual."

Ron wasn't to be calmed down at all, however. Still wheezing vociferously, he all but growled, "What did you hear, Gin?!"

She smiled cheekily, "Oh, well, Fred and George weren't exactly mouse-like before they cast the Silencing Spell, so upon hearing strange, _queer_ and definitely some shouts, I decided to check what was going on. And here I am, full to brimming with perfect knowledge of the _entire_ conversation."

He opened his mouth to speak, but his anger and embarrassment were too much for him to handle alone. He was shaking a little; a danger sign for all within his immediate presence. 

"Do close your mouth, Ron, it isn't very attracting to women you know. And that _is _the last thing you want Hermione to think that, am I right?"

Fred received a penetrating death glare from Ginny, and he literally shrank back, perhaps in his mind, the effects of what their younger sister was capable of was still fresh. "Fred! Now's not the time, ok? Anyway, as George said, the three are here, and it concerns Harry."

The twins nodded righteously, and all traces of his previous emotions fled from Ron's face. 

"Well, come on then! What are we standing around here looking like idiots for?"

In a few minutes, the four redheads were creeping down the stairs, eyes fixed on the three figures before them with apprehension. The quiet voices sounded seriously grave. 

"Well, Poppy, Dumbledore seemed unusually calm about it. He just insinuated very clearly that is important that we leave at seven o'clock for 12 Grimmauld Place. Elphias and Hestia have news about the latest Death Eater raid."

"Molly, is it all right if we turn over for the night?"

"Why, of course! You can take P-Percy's room, I'll conjure up another bed."

The four Weasleys whose presences weren't known exchanged dark looks at the mention f their brother. Rustling of robes and thuds on the coffee table were heard as three mugs of tea were set down. 

"Good night, Molly, and many thanks," the whispered voice of McGonagall louder than ever. 

"No, no, Professor, many thanks _to you_, for rescuing Harry," Mrs. Weasley said, gratefulness apparent in her wan voice. 

A few more seconds and it hit Ron. 

"Gin! Fred, George! They're going to go up the stairs!"

Quick as they could without alerting the three adults, they move sideways into the living room, and as soon as they were safely behind the wall, the sound of halcyon footsteps faded farther and farther away. 

"What is _that_?"

Ginny squinted; the dim light that the lamp in the corner gave off wasn't really enough for them to see well. Her brothers turned around.

"What, Gin-gin?"

She gasped and turned very still and pale. Her brothers, too, scrunched up their eyes to get a better view. George actually went a few steps forward to see what exactly could shock their sister so much, before—

"_Bloody hell_!Is that Harry?!"

The four walked softly nearer, and when they got to the side of the couch, they just stared at their fellow wizard, at their fellow student, at their friend. 

"Harry?" Ginny whispered as she laid an experimental hand on his arm, carefully, with extreme caution, afraid that he would break into a thousand pieces if she dared lay any more pressure. 

Then, suddenly, those vividly alive green eyes flew open, pain and torment apparent, as Harry yelled loud enough to rattle even the ghost in the attic, "MULCIBER! SANDARA! CARMINE! ARGH!!!"

_ _____________________________________________________________________

_Asterisk explanations:_

_*- That time when the Light side also used the Unforgivables.__ (I'm not sure about the Killing Curse, though. Come to think of it, I'm not sure about this whole Light side using the Unforgivables idea, either. It just exists for this purpose; the purpose of the best friends having memories) _

_** I DO NOT TAKE DRUGS. I JUST ASSUME THAT THIS WOULD BE HOW THE IMPERIO CURSE WOULD FEEL. ü _

_***They've graduated from Hogwarts, therefore, they are fully qualified wizards, and are allowed to use magic outside of their old school. _

**_Please review! _**


	6. Can't Fight the Moonlight

_lovers alone wear sunlight_

_— e.e. cummings_****

**Many thanks to the few who have reviewed, your thoughts are very much taken into heart.**

**Snape is at Number Four, to ask Vernon some questions. Ginny is at (where else?) the Burrow, with some thoughts to ponder and dissect…**

**And now, without further ado, the sixth chapter in In Brilliant Fire Burns Desire. **

Chapter 6: _Can't Fight the Moonlight_

**InBrilliantFireBurnsDesire -- this it the new "time" divider, since ff.net refuses the usual divider :)**

The chilling gale of summer nights seeped in through the small space between the bottom of the Dursleys' entrance door and the well-polished (and well-dirtied) floor of their home.

The quickly passing wind did not bother the man inside the seemingly strange house, who was intently reading a book on a common Muggle contraption . . ..

**AC COBRA 280 & 427**

_ . . . . fitting a 4.2-litre Ford V-eight engine into their lithe and handsome light alloy Ace sportscar. By early 1962, AC had built the first prototypes. . . . _

The edge of his abnormally large nose was a few millimeters away from the page, not unlike the manner he'd used in taking a test way before, which had earned him taunts.

It was rather amusing, Severus thought, as his eyes scanned the page, which still had the authentic smell of a new, colored, and expensive book. Nevertheless, the dust he had blown off the cover had told him that the book was merely for display and showing off to any rich ones who might come to visit.

_Dursley really is not joking about this rich business, then._

He flicked his wand and a few more pages turned until it landed on the two hundred fifth pages. Snape's eyes bulged a bit at the eye-candy before him.

"What is _that_?"

**ABOVE: **_You can spot a Plus eight by its light alloy wheels, though the wheelbase was longer and the track wider than the 4/4._

He leaned in for a closer look; the setting sunset in the picture had cast an orange illumination on the midnight black of the car.

"Maybe this car-motor foolishness of Muggles isn't as bad as we thought . . .."

Snape let the thought linger for a while, mulling it over as he drank a cup of hot water, thanks to his exploration of the house, before he closed the thick book and sought out another one with a duller cover (the previous tome had had a black background, and in the center-left, was a gleaming silver jaguar with its jaws wide open).

He really couldn't see the relationship of a wild animal with cars.

_Never mind. Leave Muggles to their own crazy world._

The next book had a red . . . a red Chevrolet, was it? Perhaps he should sleep earlier at nights if he wanted full abilities of his eyes when he aged.

**1964 Lincoln Continental**

**Interior**

_Continental has power steering and windows, walnut cappings . . .._

The sound of an engine turning off.

"Hmm?"

_ . . . a padded dashboard, lush carpets, and vacuum- powered—_

"Argh!"

_Might as well finish the Continental thing_, he thought as he heard a rather interesting sound that resembled an angered hippopotamus, his favorite Muggle animal. Of course, no one should know that Severus Snape actually had a favorite Muggle animal . . .. They'd think he was going . . . soft.

_ . . . and vacuum-powered door locks as standard. The locks operated automatically as soon as the cars started to move—_

**Click.**

It was a soft sound, barely audible to untrained ears. No one who knew Severus Snape called him an untrained man.

He paused his admiration of the Continental beauty.

Yes, it the unmistakable sound of a key turning in a door lock. Muffled voices, much more quiet than that of the outburst on wizards' magical abilities, and the sounds of feet scuffling to get in out of the cold were audible.

_Poor fools. They make me want to split my insides with laughter at their silly antics._

He looked back onto the book on his lap but to his irritation, he'd lost the page. Sighing with indignation, and feeling a surge of annoyance flow through his veins, he stood up. After much awkward patting around and grunting (the books looked devilishly light, but then again, looks can be deceiving), he straightened up once more, and scanned the room for any signs that he had occupied it.

To his slight dismay, the couch's chignon cover had a tiny hole, maybe due to the time when he'd accidentally let the car book's sharp edge poke through? It wasn't his fault he was born with a most disturbing itch in a certain private part on his backside that had a tendency to sting in the most unfortunate timing.

And the rug, Persian, Severus assumed, which had once been a handsome cream color, now had mysteriously acquired some large brownish chunks. Well, he thought, you couldn't really blame him for having long legs, and big feet, could you? Besides, the plant was ugly anyway, and it went for the rug. He was honestly doing the household a favor.

With two quick words, and some wand movements, the mess, to his slight dismay once again, was gone.

_Pity. The house so looked better with my adjustments._

"— Inferior to them, I think not—"

"—Second place! Second place, Petunia!"

"Mum— Mummy, I'm tired. Can we go in the bloody house?"

_Ah, but of course. They're talking about the Most Well-Kept Lawn in Surrey contest. Is there such a thing?_

The Death Eater turned Potions master tittered slightly as the bony woman, obviously harried, was blaming the "ruddy good-for-nothing contest's" effect on her son, causing him to say things that he mustn't. The boisterous cursing of the patriarch was so, but not too loud that he would have shame put on his family by the neighbors. It seemed the key wasn't working, and could Petunia please have the lock fixed tomorrow by the time he got home? The consequences promised hardly bestirred his darling wife.

After many threats, whimpers, and sneezes (these were feminine-like, so Severus mulled over the fact that Lily's sister certainly was allergic to magic) nothing was happening to the Dursley family.

They were utterly clueless of the simple Locking spell the Potions master had cast on the door, which was so because he needed time to think of how to approach the enemy.

The reason for which was the explanation of his untimely planning was that, he had been thinking of how to confront the Dursleys when a certain stack of books that featured a certain Muggle contraption caught his steely black eye. Still, his trusty cunningness and his quick thinking hadn't failed him, and, soon, Severus had uttered Finite Incantatem.

There were a few moments of the sound of metal against metal before—

"Damn door— really, now, Petunia, you should—"

He deeply regretted the fact that at that exact moment when the pot-bellied man stepped into his home, an unfortunate mite found its most unfortunate way into his nostril.

Severus Snape was a man who rarely sneezed, and when he did, all the pent-up sneezes that refused to come out did so.

Thus, it was safe to say, that Vernon Dursley got the shock of his life, when he stepped into his home. After all, it wasn't every day that you would go home and be very nearly blown off your feet by a monstrous _achoo!_, was it?

No, sir, it wasn't.

After he got over his initial surprise, Vernon quickly retaliated.

"PETUNIA! Intruder! Intruder! He's—"

He got a good look at their slowly-recovering uninvited guest and suddenly, he didn't really remind Snape of the life-size fuchsia plush bunny he'd seen on one of his trips to the Muggle world before. Now, he struck Snape as a rather large snowball, for the plump Muggle had paled so fast as one could make a snowball.

"Great Scott! He's— He's one of them!"

_I really do despise having to shove Veritaserum down his unworthy throat. The very thought of my hours of work going to waste is too much for my poor heart._

Even in his thoughts, he sounded sarcastic. He brushed himself off in an attempt to appear distinguished even after that catastrophic sneeze. Small, bumbling footsteps followed by those that were heavy and thick sounding to the ears accompanied the frenzied shouts of Vernon that he tried to tone down should the neighbors wake up.

He didn't suppose they would ever be able to stand the sight of him when faced against danger. It would surely be too much for their frail minds.

In a nanosecond, he was beside Vernon, and his hand over the Muggle's disgustingly wet mouth. The gravity-troubled chap struggled to get out of the wizard's strong hold. After a few moments of indefatigable hassle on Dursley's part, all was still.

"Another word out of you, Mr. Dursley," he hissed very near the ear, where he knew what he would say would be loud enough to make the Muggle flinch, "you and your precious family's heads will be the next decorations for Azkaban's fortress."

The man stiffened, and his wife and son stood still, their mouths agape, since Snape had his wand pointed at the heart of the titanic vista, which was Dudley Dursley.

"I am sure the dementors will enjoy the view of your disfigured heads, perched atop some unused spikes, with the crows feasting on your decaying eyes."

The three's faces were enough to make him let go of the man and just Apparate to Madam Rosmerta's for a "cuppa", what the lovely barmaid called a tough shot of Firewhisky.

_Hahaha… But no. Business is what I am here for, and what I will get._

For a very strained matter of time, Severus' own mouth went through a series of rather nasty transformations. From underneath his hand, some muffled sounds were coming, and obviously, Vernon was salivating.

_Disgusting Muggle._

"I said, not a word, Dursley! Now. If you would all just…," he gave a wave of his wand that he sorely hoped radiated nonchalance, "step inside your humble abode, then we shall get down to what I came here for as soon as possible."

No sooner had he turned to face the house, when Dursley, unable to fathom his good luck at having writhed his way out off the man's grasp, and not having his head blasted off by that blasted wooden stick, and at his disbelief at the wizard calmly suggesting they all go in his house, and talk business over a cup of coffee, had grabbed a handful of his wife and son's clothes, and was bellowing with all the strength Severus reckoned an angered rhinoceros might exert on a full-blast bellow, "Run! RUN! Petunia, Dudders! Let's go! Hussle it up, boy, come on!"

Severus waited a moment to revel in the rather satisfying fact that he had that particular effect on people before he uttered the incantation for the Binding Spell softly. It was a pity for the sight of an impeccably thin woman, her dress clutched by a ragged-looking man at the front, and the back of her skirt in the hands of a terrified, super-sized bowling ball to go.

_All good things must come to an end, they say._

He watched as, it seemed, with exaggerated slow-motion, the family fell down, and the cousin of Potter, Severus was glad to say with a grim satisfaction, was not as lucky as his parents, who had fallen backwards. He landed face down.

_Time to get the act up._

Gliding with almost as much deadly grace of a dementor, he reached them.

"I warned you, Mr. Dursley."

The words were spoken with absolute poison.

Soon, his eyes met the frightened ones of each of the fallen Dursleys. The boy was whimpering.

After what seemed like forever, his lips parted once more, but the words were not clipped with as much malice as before.

"Once I undo your binds, you will all get up, and we will follow you, Mr. Dursley, into your home, where you will welcome me. He," a quirk of his head towards Dudley, who cowered, "will be sent up to his room, where he will fall unto his bed, asleep, whilst you, and Mrs. Dursley will sit with me in your living room, where we will talk about some impending matters that can hardly be avoided any longer."

Husband and wife faced each other, and they knew that the boy was gone. Fear was etched onto the stunningly sharp features of Petunia, while apprehension on those of Vernon. Dudley's fright was indescribable.

He stole a furtive glance at the blond woman, and thought, _funny, Evans. . . She doesn't look at all a thing like you. . ._

He muttered the spell, and soon, they were walking, if not being dragged, on Dudley's part, and if not pushing, on his mother's. Their footsteps echoed throughout the empty street, various sounds, scuffling, thuds. The echoes reverberated in Snape's mind for eternity. They were both soothing and familiarly destructive.

Vernon Dursley couldn't believe his bad luck. His secretary had run off that morning with a note thanking him for everything and apologizing profusely, and that he had no choice. Vernon didn't see the point in running away from so much money. For a secretary, his had a high salary.

Before entering the house one more time that night, Severus cast his eyes to the sky. There were no clouds and the millions of stars up above shone down on the miserable lot.

_Merlin, give me the patience, I beg of you. . ._

The three-quartered moon seemed to splay much more beams than ever before, casting them in an almost eerie light.

**InBrilliantFireBurnsDesire**

** a few minutes later**

"Dudley, go up to bed now. Kiss Mummy and Daddy good night."

Severus thought quickly, as he mulled over the situation, in an attempt to expedite it. They took their time exchanging their evening pleasantries, as if they were the last they'd ever exchange.

_Good thing Black's dead and gone. They _would_ be the last 'good night's any of them will ever utter for the rest of their lives if he were here right now._

Once the boy's door had closed, he pounced.

"All right. What did you do to Potter? What reason did you have to do it?"

They shared another fearful glance and Severus thought disgustedly that should he ever find a woman in the world who was competent and blatantly condescending enough to match his own arrogance to be his wife (which was very, _very_ unlikely to happen in any lifetime), he would… Well, he wouldn't do a thing along the lines upon which the Dursleys were acting on.

They were stupid, there was no other word for it.

"I swear, I didn't do anything! Get out of my house, you — you freak!"

Snape merely brushed aside the comment and walked a few steps, taking his time to let the last words roll over each other in his mind before letting them go completely.

"Really, now? And do you suppose that Potter just tortured himself, cut his arms, legs, his body, and banged against the wall for his entertainment? I'm sure he enjoyed himself _immensely_."

The words were said with no nonsense. He wouldn't take any from any damn Muggle.

"No — yes — well, I don't —"

The wind rushed against the inside of his robes as he pivoted on the spot to face them.

"SILENCE!"

He had what he wanted. The woman kept making noises that were a cross between whimpers and indignant murmurs. Her husband was not much of a difference.

_Talk about hypocrisy… For a man his size to be so easily unhinged is opprobrium to obesity. _

"Sit down, Mr. Dursley, and tell me your inevitably recreant version of semblance as to why Potter is now in St. Catchpole, being tended to carefully, as he had seemingly endured about a month's worth of torture, _and_ drank some potions that are not known to Muggles and let's see if I will buy it. If I do, we'll drink some tea that your wife will prepare while you tell me what happened. If not, well… We'll see, eh?"

The fear in Vernon's intensified. Severus was careful to take note of that. Unrest grew apparent with every moment that passed in the room.

Taking her husband's silence as a cue, Petunia hurried away to the safe confines of her kitchen. For a minute, she looked up to her ceiling, and cursed her damned sister silently for bringing this upon them. After all, it was her child that the two men were feuding silently about, wasn't it?

Petunia heard her husband start speaking, and, with a moment's hesitation, got around to making tea.

Their conversation was carried by the passing night wind. First, came the stranger's gravelly voice.

"Anything unusual at all in the past three months? Anything that slightly aroused your suspicion, to even the smallest height?"

"Well— well, I don't really know if it's of any importance at all, but— there was a fellow in my office— I work in a drills company, you know, might get a promotion any day now—"

He faltered for a minute, seeing the glare that had come over Snape's eyes.

_Only a plank between me and perdition, Muggle. Take your pick._

"Anyway, my old secretary's husband was being relocated to somewhere else, and she refused my suggestion that she divorce him and just stay here, so we had to get a new one for me. A man with my position cannot get on possibly without a secretary. There was a man, he applied, by the name of Danil Vargas."

Danil Vargas. The name was familiar to Snape, like a long-forgotten memory, whose fragments still lingered in one's mind. Spasmodically, he remembered.

_Danil Vargas. Mortis Dolohov's fatuous pseudonym during Hogwarts. The one he had a spat over with McGonagall during sixth year. Mortis? Can it be possible?_

Severus inclined his head to signal Vernon to go on.

Reassured, he said, "I found him to be a likeable chap, very polite, cautious, and he had the best sense of humor you could ever find. We had a routine: every morning, we'd chat for a while over some donuts, then get to work. In the afternoons, just right about going home, we'd spent a few minutes or so talking about a lot of things, while we drank our coffee. He liked his decaf, but that's the point where I don't agree with him. Oh, and did I mention that he's the one who mixes my coffee for me? Very helpful, really, Danil was…"

Vernon's words trailed off in Severus' mind. It didn't really take a lot of brain cells to work it all out: coffee, afternoon talks, Danil Vargas. . .

"… the funny thing was, that after each cup of coffee we had, I'd forget what would happen for a few minutes."

The Potions Master leaned in more closely at this tidbit of information.

"I suppose it was from the stress getting alleviated from my body. Hard times, hard times— not that we're struggling— I remember always going home in sort of a daze, always wondered if Vargas would put liquor in my coffee, and I—"

Vernon stopped talking, but Severus was already on his feet.

"Speak up, man. This information is on a need-to-know basis."

But the two huge sausages that Dursley had for lips were clamped together. "Why should I tell you? I've told you enough already. What has my new secretary got to do with Potter, eh? You tell me _that_."

In a swift second, he was at Dursley's side, and he said the spell that would keep his mouth open, before reaching deep into his robes and emerging with a small crystal flask of Veritaserum in his hand. Five drops were in Dursley's mouth and swallowed before he could even begin to react.

The thought occurred to Severus that maybe forcing someone to drink something while their head was tilted upwards could probably cause them to choke.

_If that does happen, I'll just conjure the drops out of his throat. . . Wouldn't _that_ be pleasant?_

He thought that a choking was seriously going to take place when Dursley started spluttering and clutching his throat desperately.

"How— how dare you! In my HOUSE! Out, you freak! Get _OUT_!"

But then he realized the man was just choking over his indignation at being treated so savagely. Severus wasn't undaunted the least bit.

"Sit, Mr. Dursley, for a few minutes and the potion will take effect. _Then_, we will continue our little… chat," said Severus.

Potter's gruesome relative was in his seat, begrudgingly held down with the use of a spell, which he'd had to cast due to the man's refusal to sit down. Honestly, the cheek of these Muggles.

Greasy-haired face slightly balding, with nothing but silence between them. Pure loathing was flashing in the eyes of Vernon. Severus accepted that with mild amusement.

**Tick.**

**Tock.**

They both heard a tinkling sound, before a rather hollow-sounding crash resonated through out the house. It came from the kitchen. Neither of them looked away from each other.

A quiet that greatly unnerved the Muggle occupants descended over the household once more. It was comforting to Severus.

**Tick.**

**Tock. **

His heart beat in time with the clock's ticking behind him.

**Thud.**

**Tick. **

**Thud. **

******  
Tock. **

He waited patiently for any sign from the man who was watching him intently, a challenge in his eyes. Any thing, a quick jolt of a finger, the slight tap of a foot.

**Tick. **

**Tock. **

The scraping of broken china pieces on some tiles. The indisputable _swish, swish_ of a broom. Petunia's moving shadow was cast on the ecru carpet.

The grandfather clock behind Vernon suddenly burst into chimes, as the big hand had finished its journey and reached twelve, whilst the smaller one pointed to three.

_Witching hour_.

An eyebrow very, _very_ imperceptibly twitched. Severus saw.

_Only in these kinds of situations do I get to flaunt the fact that I am knowledgeable in potions is very beneficial. _

_Well.. I suppose it really isn't that big a change in Potions history, but, still. . . . Altering the legendary Veritaserum is _quite_ an achievement, if I do say so myself. . . Not to get away with my large head here. . ._

"What did you do every time you got home after having a cup with this Vargas man?"

It must've come as a shock to Dursley that his first impulse was to answer. He swallowed hard, as if trying to swallow the information he inevitably was going to give away.

_Hard thing, Veritaserum. Hard to fight. _

"I'd go home, kiss my wife hello, spend time with my boy. At night, when they sleep, I—

"

He shook his head furiously. Severus knew this was hard. There was a feeling that followed the drinking of the serum that sort of _forced _you to answer. It was unpleasant, to put it down in a nutshell.

"Go on."

Fat beads of sweat rolled down the sides of his head, dampening the few strands of hair that lingered there. His hands were pale with effort of trying to keep it all in.

"You're just doing that to spite me, Muggle. Believe me, to be annoyed is something you wouldn't want me to see?

What harm was there in telling a complete stranger about his nightly terrorizing of his unwanted nephew? Dursley wondered sarcastically.

Finally, he couldn't hold it in any longer.

"I—I hurt the boy."

_Humph. That was made blatantly obvious. _

"I don't know why. Something inside just made me."

_We all have our evil twins, Mr. Dursley. Unfortunately, you do not know how to send them off on vacation. _

"An anger, deep inside, boiled inside of me."

_Oh, no, I'm mistaken. It's not your evil twin, Muggle, just gas._

"I just had to vent it out on someone. Who else to but Potter?"

_I'm afraid we share the same dilemma. _

"I don't know what else. It was like someone had ordered me to do it, I can remember. Vestiges of memory. I have dreams about it, about a voice, that tells me what to do."

He paused, gasping for breath, before glaring insolently at Snape, whose quirky comments were making him wince slightly. It was… _unthinkable_ for a man like him to smirk. A wince would have to do.

"During the day, I don't remember, for some reason. But at night, everything comes back. Not full-force, mind you. If it came back fully, I would see who tells me these things, obviously."

_Obviously_.

Severus mulled things over inside his head. A storm of ideas brewed inside his head.

_Danil Vargas or Mortis Dolohov, new secretary. Was last seen in Wizarding World ten years ago, after his manor was barged down by Ministry officials in search of his brother, Andrew… Coffee, anger boiling, abusiveness. The Dark Lord's planning something. _

He could feel it. Just like he'd felt when Pettigrew betrayed Lily and James Potter. Of course, he'd been on the wrong side that time.

His eyes zeroed in one Dursley's tense face, trying to discern anything.

"What happened to Danil Vargas?" 

Through his nervousness, Vernon managed a deep-browed frown.

"That's just it. This morning he took off. Said in his note he'd had everything he needed, done everything he'd done. And he apologized like mad, and thanked me. Ungrateful being," he couldn't help but add in the end.

The small beginnings of panic racked Severus' heart. _Took off? _What was happening? The panic was growing and it flew around him, threatening, like a mosquito. Then it bit.

He tried to look nonchalant.

_You're the king of nonchalance, Snape. Yes, you are. . ._

"So," he said, walking around a few steps to add to the vibe, "You've no idea where he is?"

"Haven't the foggiest"

_Damn._

He tried his hardest to think of another question, a possible one that might lead to where Mortis Dolohov really was, and why he was traipsing about Britain, using an old school nickname. It was greatly… disturbing.

The clinking of metal against china was heard as Petunia set down the tea cups with stiffness radiating from her every move. His eyes began to fuzz at the edges as Dursley hesitantly tried to reach for the table but found he couldn't.

His forearm began to burn. It was starting.

_Not now…_ Severus mentally groaned.

The woman who reminded him of a vulture surveyed the scene with intense concentration. It was slightly unnerving. She looked exactly as how he'd overheard Lily describing her to Potter.

_Potter senior_, he thought with disgust. _Unimaginative, plain, strikingly boring. And that she looked as if she had dung all the time under her nose._

Funny. Her son said the exact same thing about Narcissa Malfoy. He remembered Malfoy recounting the events with Crabbe and Goyle. From what he'd heard, Malfoy had knocked Potter out cold.

Severus highly doubted it.

He sucked in some air, after sipping at his tea. Chamomile, he noted. He was partial to chamomile. Vernon was miserably staring at his cup. The clocked ticked slowly behind them, the movement of the larger hand producing a repetitive sound, not unlike a metronome.

**Tick.**

Vernon struggled some more but all his efforts were in vain. Lily's sister didn't move. She stood, her lips in a line so straight that they could challenge McGonagall's.

**Tock.**

"Well," he started. "It was nice… _meeting _you, Mr. Dursley. Mrs. Dursley," he bowed his head a little, all the way his teeth gritted at the prospect of bowing to Muggles who obviously had no hearts.

**Tick.**

It was tingling. He supposed he would've been used to the feeling by now, but no. It tingled like every time he hit his funny bone. Not that anyone expected _Severus Snape_ to have a funny bone.

**Tock.**

He could feel the distress of the man as he started walking to the front door.

**Tick.**

Severus couldn't just leave the man that way. It wasn't out of pity. Severus Snape didn't feel pity. It was that if he did (leave Dursley that way, that is) he could, no, he _would_ get caught by the Ministry, and he didn't need any nasty business right now.

"_Finite Incantatem_."

**Tock. **

Dursley sprang to his feet. "NOW, Petunia! Get the rifle!"

**Tock.**

He was vaguely aware of Petunia's alarm as she broke her stiff posture to reach for the gun. It was in her hands at the same time his wand was in his.

Dimly, he heard the sound of the rifle being prepared to shoot. The feel of his wand was familiar and oddly comforting, and was it just his imagination or did the touch of the wand alleviate some of the hissing pain that was in his arm?

Severus pointed his wand at the couple and shouted, feeling all the magic he gathered inside come out through the end of it.

"_Obliviate Dismarte_!"

He didn't see the blank looks on their faces as they struggled to remember what had happened. Then, with a satisfaction descending over his body, he fully Disapparated. His left forearm, where the Dark Mark burned, was the last to disappear.

The moonlight followed him as he reappeared at one of the places he loathed most in the world.

**InBrilliantFireBurnsDesire**

_Dear Diary,_

_I had a million things to mull over, a million inquiries about myself that I failed to answer. Then something so terrible like _this_ happens, that one of the people I love the most is hurt beyond belief, and soon, I'm full to bursting with a million more inquisitions about Harry, and no one is competent enough to answer me. But, then again, I didn't actually summon enough courage to ask them out loud._

_I've been pushed around these past three days, and ordered here and there to do this and that. Not that I am fed up with doing anything to help Harry, not at all. I'd do anything to help him get better as soon as he can. After all, that's what people who are in love do, right? Help the person they gave their hearts out to. Even if the action wasn't returned. _

_A thousand thoughts buzz through my head, and I'm so confused. Good thing I decided that I couldn't, wouldn't, take anymore of this emotional torment and write to you. You've been here for me, diary, for quite a long time now (because two weeks is a very, very, very long time for a diary to last with someone like me, who is absolutely terrified of them). And I think that, I can trust a blank book once again without having to carry fear on my shoulders every time I confide in you._

_It's good to finally be able to wind down after that much running around and following orders and unleash my emotion onto these empty pages. After all, that's what you're here for, right? To help me with my life. To share with the task of carrying my load of problems. _

_So . . . ready for a rather pent-up harangue?_

_Here it goes, cap'n._

_What is it with Harry always having to be the one to get hurt, eh? What's he done to anyone, in the first place? It's not fair. Everyone expects everything else that isn't included in their lists of good and favorable things to happen to someone, and just so unluckily for Harry, it had to be him. _

_He always has to be the hero, who in their minds, has to take on the responsibility of saving everyone else's throats by sacrificing his own. He always has to be the one to give up something for them. _

_Isn't it enough that he's practically becoming a martyr for all of them? For millions of people he's never known. People who, whenever he should fail to protect their arses, suddenly turn their cheek on him and make up explanations of the reasons behind his failures. He's a deranged person who seeks only our attention. He's a filthy liar who deserves nothing more than a life-term sentence in Azkaban._

He is NOT! _Good God! People certainly have the nerve to just treat him like a dolphin. Yes, I've read about one of the world wars, whichever one of them included trained dolphins swimming up to enemy ships with explosives strapped securely to their backs._

_The dolphin, much to my chagrin, and yours, doesn't survive. How can he? He'd be a thaumaturgy. _

_What really bothers me, and taps into my temper often (which doesn't take much to flare up) is the damn fact that no matter what he does, no matter how hard he tries, it's _never_ good enough for the damn world. _

And it breaks my heart.

_On to less-saddening topics, then..._

_Mum said that Professor Snape's right there at the Dursleys (Merlin forbid them to live one second longer) and he's going to straighten things out._

_Well, that's comforting. It was hardly better than knowing how they found out about Harry, now. How does anyone expect anyone to be reassured by the fact that Hogwarts' very own menace of a Potions Master can be counted upon to redeem the dignity that was stolen viciously from one of his most detested pupils?_

_I know Snape was always good, but that still doesn't change the fact the he's a bloody Death Eater. Even though it's perfectly clear to me that he's a spy for our side, it's still so unsubstantial and hard to believe. Wouldn't you have a hard time putting your trust fully into someone who is so unnecessarily condescending and very critical about every little thing you do?_

_And, add to that that he was an active slave of the Dark Lord for who knows how long? before he decided that he'd been bad and deserved to turn over to the good side._

_Not to mention that he has an divergently large nose, which is slightly off-center, and that his really awful hair could do with a washing every decade and that the way his robes fly with the wind is downright frightful, not like Harry (because on Harry it's quite sexy) and that . . . that I sound silly, yes, even to myself. _

_What's it to me or anyone else, for that matter, what Professor Snape looks like?_

_Nothing at all. I would seriously do Fred, George and Ron proud, though. Now, who would want that? They most certainly aren't proclaimed fans of Snape. Quite the contrary, in fact. _

_When I got my first good look at Harry, I swear, my heart beat faster at the sight of him and it stopped still. It really did. How could it not? It hurt me to see him hurt. And who knows just what his mind's been going through? _

_ It took every fiber of my being NOT to scream out loud in horror. Why? Because:_

_1. It would alert the Professors and Mum, and they'd probably think a Death Eater has gotten to me down here_

_2. When they do find out that it was just me screaming out of horror at Harry's countenance, Ron, the twins and me will be in very big trouble with Mum, for I rather have a loud scream for someone my size_

_3. She'll start fussing about how she didn't raise her children to disturb people who are in need of rest and ranting about how she's so ashamed, and how dare they, right in front of their guests (and one of the twins will most probably mutter how having teachers at their home doesn't amount to guests)_

_4. Then, Mum would hear that, and she'd yell her head off about not being polite and to keep things to ourselves if it's not anything nice (at this point, she'll look at each of us in the eye to try and challenge us, but mostly she does that to catch her breath. Even empress dowagers need oxygen once in a while. I expect it refuels them for their next yelling times...)_

_5. McGonagall and Pomfrey will just be standing there, looking like bloody idiots (well, not McGonagall, she never can look like an idiot, even while wearing Snape's ensemble whenever Neville casts Riddikulus on a Boggart, but maybe Madam Pomfrey. The woman lives for hysterics, honestly!) while Mum lectures us four Weasley "young ones"_

_6. And last of all, number six, Harry would wake up and that's not good at all for someone in his condition, and plus, I would hate to be the reason ( I yelled) started the reason (Mum yelled) that he woke up. _

_Luckily, due to my unsurpassable amount of self-control, and the fact that the moment I gasped at the sight of Harry, he beat me to screaming out loud, therefore, saving my brothers and me the trouble of having to be indefinitely bored by Mum, and indefinitely amused with the squirming of Madam Pomfrey._

_And, diary, I can't help but feel hurt… Who is Carmine? Sandara? I don't care about Mulciber. After all, he is a guy. Unless Harry swings that way… No!! I will not permit myself to think of Harry that way! It wouldn't do anyone in the world justice, certainly not me or Harry. _

_I know I don't own Harry. I never did, and, most likely never will. What with this drab head full of orange-y red feathers that only pathetic people call hair and my plain brown eyes that are nothing when compared to Harry's emeralds?_

_I'm being silly again and it's so stupid. I know Harry well enough now to know that he doesn't really go much for looks, but he still does, just a tad bit (what boy on earth could be straight and not ogle at a girl who's well endowed in the chest part?). I've studied him, diary, just as hard as I've studied my Potions lessons (and my grades, which, to tell you the truth, and nothing but, are so abysmal, they can rival Neville's) and I've thought about him a lot._

_Obviously, you would say. You have a bloody crush on the git!_

_But, Harry's anything but a git and what I feel for him is more than just any stupid crush. It used to be just that: a silly, schoolgirl crush. Over the years, somehow, it's developed into something more, right under my nose, and now, and only now, do I realize what it is, and see it for what it really is: true love._

_And what I mean by 'studied' is that I've come to terms on my conclusion of Harry's personality through rigorous thinking (during sleepless nights, of which the excuses were nervousness for an upcoming quiz, or such)_

_He wouldn't just go for a girl just because she's beautiful. Harry's deeper than Ron (ah, Fleur… If Bill only knew…), much, much deeper. He's not thick _at all.

_And it isn't bloody likely that he'll just suddenly notice me for my astounding beauty, which to the rest of the world is non-existent, but in his eyes, I am the apple. It isn't bloody likely he'll just fall head over heels for me as soon as he realizes what a prat he's been to waste precious time not loving me. _

_I really think I am losing my mind. Here I am, on this grassy knoll that I always came to as a child, writing to you about my love's preference and a bitter report of what I want to happen between him and me but most probably never will when he is in that house, which is mine, coincidentally, lying, after a month or so's worth of abuse from his relatives. I can really hate myself._

_Speaking of myself, I'm lost in the world of self-discovery. It's the teenage years, perfectly normal, as Mum would say, however, I can't help but feel disgruntled with my self. It's like I'm sick of my own skin. I can't stand living in this person anymore. It's like my body's just a shell, and I'm a crab. It's perfectly known that a crab changes shells once in a while._

_But here I am, halfway in and halfway out, and in the middle of the big change. A part of me won't give up the old me, but a bigger, much more important part wants to get rid of the old me so badly._

_I need to define myself, and to see why my life is as it is. How can I jump so quickly from Snape to Sand-whatsit to crabs? I seriously do not know. Don't look to me for answers, for I have but questions._

_There's a need to find myself, to find the real me. The big question is: should I find whomever the real me is, will I love her like I used to love my old self?_

_Well, right now, I have no time to answer any of my inquiries. Funny how many times I mentioned questions in this entry, hmm, diary? Although I loathe changes, for it's so hard to adjust to them, I actually regret not having changed something within me in the past hour: I still have no answers._

_I have to go and tend to Harry now, make sure he's all right and everything. Diary, I really am so worried. He hasn't woken up since the night they brought him here. Every night, I wish on every star that he gets better soon. If there's one thing I'm happy about, it's the fact, though, that I am not a crab. _

_Yours, and very confused, _

_ Ginny_

**InBrilliantFireBurnsDesire**

"Ginny, could you be a dear and just take over tonight? I'll be going to Diagon Alley tomorrow for some supplies, and I'm afraid I'll have to get sleep before challenging the crowd out there."

She looked up to her mother just as she was finishing her diary entry. Hastily, she pocketed the book, and threw on the covers. For whatever reason, she was not aware of at that time.

"Mum!! I'm writing in my diary!"

Molly Weasley smiled at her youngest fondly. In her eyes, her baby was beautiful everywhere, even with her hair in clumps from taking a shower and not drying it before lying down.

"After, then, dear. Good night."

Ginny couldn't help but beam back at her mum. She loved it when her mum, who was always dashing around, ready to help someone, flashed her that particular smile, pretty much like the same Harry wore rarely, but different in a special way.

"All right. You take care, now, Mummy."

Ginny kissed her good night before settling in back in her bed to finish her diary entry.

_. . ._

_I have to go and tend to Harry now, make sure he's all right and everything. Diary, I really am so worried. He hasn't woken up since the night they brought him here. Every night, I wish on every star that he gets better soon. If there's one thing I'm happy about, it's the fact, though, that I am not a crab. _

_Yours, and very confused, _

_ Ginny_

_…_

After signing her name (which she found very silly, but felt compelled to do it every time), she placed a clammy hand on top of her racing heart. Harry had this effect on her, but lately, she'd been proud of herself.

She no longer shut up around him, but went on normally as she would around her friends. She was finally able to talk to him face-to-face, eye-to-eye without turning red or doing something stupid.

Yes, she had reason enough to be proud. That, and she wasn't self-deprecating anymore. Not as much as she used to be, anyway.

As her socked feet found their way down the stairs, she tried to make her footsteps as quiet as possible. Soft, almost inaudible _thuds_. She didn't want to wake Harry up. Not when he needed rest the most.

Like many nights before in her life, the moon was pale and only three-fourths full. It shined brighter, still, nonetheless. A thought occurred to her.

_Poor Professor Lupin. The full moon is nearing._

She inwardly winced. Professor Lupin had always struck her as a person who would accept anything but pity. And here she was, her heart reaching out for him. No, it would not do to do something a person didn't want.

Ginny continued to the living room, where a fire was just starting to burn.

_Good old Mum, wanting to keep Harry warm._

Thinking of warmth made her skin tingle. It was a cold night. Thank god for fires. Fires were special. They represented a lot of things Ginny loved: warmth, closeness, passion for life, and love.

There was a song she'd heard as a child from a Muggle radio her father had assembled from scratch.

Her brothers were offered to keep it, they could have it. From Bill to Ron, it was handed down. Every time it was passed on, the wonderful object from hand to hand of different sizes, she grew more nervous that one might like it. She wanted it more than any of them, she'd decided. They didn't want it as much as she did.

In the end, Ron had been granted the gift of music to be kept in his room. Ginny fumed. But then, the brotherly love taking over his smugness, Ron gave it to his little sister.

_Burnin' love.. _

She hoped Harry and her would have burning love someday. Then, in the dark, Ginny blushed deeply at the way that sounded. It sounded as if she wanted to sleep with Harry. Sure, she had fantasies, but none of _that_ kind. They were the kind of beautiful, wildly spun stories that girls her age were allowed to dream of, the kind that had fairy tale endings to top it all off.

The fire cast the shadow of the couch where Harry lay onto her and the wall behind her.

The corners of her mouth curved upward into a somewhat truly happy smile. She loved how fires could crackle and die slowly, or whenever it roared high into the sky, licking the stars with flames. Yes, fire was good. It was the color of her hair, some people said. She used to take it badly. Now, it was a compliment more beautiful and true than anything else.

On top of the cherry wood side table was a bowl of _really_ hot water. Thin wisps of steam flew from the surface of the water and dissolved in the air. Beside it was a creamy yellow face towel. It was pretty obvious what her mum wanted her to do.

The problem was that she didn't think she could actually summon enough courage to wipe away the sweat and dirt from his face. No, she didn't think she would be able to resist kissing him.

The problem is not the problem. The problem is your attitude about the problem.

Ginny picked up the cloth and poked a tentative finger at the side of the bowl, with the fear of being scalded ever-present in her mind. It was cool to the touch.

_Mum and her Cooling Charms._

She reminded herself to thank her mum for being so brilliant tomorrow morning. Heaven knew she needed to be reminded once in a while. Heaven was also where mothers came from. She smiled upwards.

The blankets were rustling.

Ginny positively froze. Did she make too much noise? Had she disturbed Harry? Oh no. She didn't want Harry to remember anything about her helping him. She was just content to watch from afar. It was… It _seemed _better that way. She would just be an unnecessary distraction.

_And there I was, saying I wasn't so belittling as before._

There was a word that described her perfectly. It indicated that you were a horrible waste of a person. It started with the letter 'h'. What was it again?

_Oh yeah. Hypocrite._

She closed her eyes and counted to a hundred (ten just didn't cute it). She wasn't going to be surprised if Harry would be standing in front of her when she opened them, his own filled with puzzlement. She was sort of expecting it, even.

Ginny's eyes flew open. She sighed, whether out of disappointment or relief, it was hard to tell.

Of course he wouldn't be there. He wasn't strong enough to stand up, let alone walk. Instantly, her anger at Harry being hurt flared up again. The Dursley man would pay.

She kneeled down beside the couch where he lay. A quiet so serene and calm yet at the same time so deafening took up the little space between her face and his. Ginny gazed at him longingly. That was the worst part of loving, she decided.

_The wanting, and wishing and then, the not having. And, yeah, there was also the part when you had your heart broken. _

As on the night she first wrote on a diary again, beams of moonlight highlighted his scarred face. The blood from his wounds that spilled out seemed to have lingered, and gave his cheeks a reddish hue. Old and new wounds decorated his face. In Ginny's eyes, he couldn't have been more beautiful.

For a few minutes she just watched him. His chest rose and fell with each breath his tired lungs took in. Underneath his eyelids, his eyes rolled around a little. Ginny wondered if they were still as green as she remembered them to be.

She wondered if the room was big enough to keep her love for Harry. It wasn't. The house wasn't big enough, either. She wondered if perhaps the sky could contain her love for Harry. Perhaps nothing could ever keep her love for Harry.

The blanket was up to his waist. His shirt had somehow ridden up, maybe because he'd slept fitfully every night he was here. Harry never woke but his sleep was plagued with nightmares. Just how horrific, no one knew. She wished she did and she wished she could transfer some of his pain to her. Anything to help him.

She tried to avert her stare when it landed on his stomach. It hurt her to see him so viciously torn down. Ginny reached out a shy hand to pull his shirt down. As she did, he let out a small groan.

Her hand remained there when she froze, rooted to the spot. When he didn't wake up, she allowed some air into her lungs.

_Mmm… _

The scent of Harry was heavy in the air. It was a familiar smell. When Ginny tried to dissect it, she found that he smelled of mist. A good kind of mist, she thought faithfully. This time it was different.

She tightly shut her eyes, and shut out the rest of her senses too. Sniffing her hand, which had touched his stomach and shirt, she tried to concentrate solely on the scent.

She recognized something _new_. A minute passed by with her in that position before—

_Aha!_

"He smells of fire." She sounded sure even though she hadn't meant to say it out loud.

Not the kind of fiery smell that reeked of burning and destruction. That was nauseating. Burning flesh, burning rubber, burning smell. Nope, this was different. This smell was tinged with heat and she liked heat. The scent also reminded her of love.

Deciding she'd wasted enough time being stupid, Ginny picked up the face towel and dipped it into the water. She let a freezing hand land on the side of his face, before wiping his cheeks, chin, nose. Gently, gently.

She felt as if he would break into a million pieces at the slightest touch. A drop of water trickled from his hairline and directly through his scar. She touched the legendary thunderbolt. It was the cause of a lot of things, most of them seriously impacting Harry's life. And it held a curse.

Strangely enough, she felt secure just stroking it tenderly.

After washing his face, she went to his hands. Up and down, her hand was steady. Dip into water, squeeze out the excess, clean his arms, run over with lotion. Dip, squeeze, cleanse, run over. It was a routine she would gladly have repeated for any period of time if it would expedite his healing. The running over part with lotion was tough.

She could feel the distinct bumps of his wounds. Each was different in their own way. Each one represented different degrees of pain.

When she finished with his arms, she moved on to his hands. After applying lotion to them, she clasped both of his in hers, and held them close to her heart. She wanted him to feel the steady rhythm. She wanted him to know that, inside there, great love for him lay.

Reluctantly, she let go. She wished he would do the same when she lay vulnerable and unconscious. Ginny looked up to his face again and touched the tip of her finger to his lips.

_Shh, Harry. It's our special, magical moment._

With a growing sense of dread and uncertainty, she peeled off the thick blanket. He wore boxer shorts underneath. She recognized them as one of Ron's, white covered with orange polka dots. He'd hated it at first, but bought it for the sake of buying underwear that donned the Chudley Cannons' colors. She'd worn it herself a few times.

Her mixed embarrassment and pleasure at having worn the same underwear as Harry sent her into furious work. She noted that his hair on his legs were definitely better than George's or any of her brothers' for that matter.

Running her soft hands over his legs seemed a bit out of her league to Ginny, but she couldn't just leave his legs dirty, could she?

His legs were firm and well-defined under her touch. Quidditch did that to a person. She wondered if his legs were well-muscled, what more of his chest? Then, turning red in the dark, she remembered that his arms had been strong, too.

Being a little bit more venturesome than what was usual for Ginny, she lathered on the thick lotion onto his left foot equally. She massaged the sole of his feet, and his toes. She kneaded and let her nimble fingers trace patterns on the surface. The same went for his right.

And, much too soon for her own liking, her job was over. She pushed his leg with mildness back onto the sofa. Ginny kneeled once more, and drank in his appearance with thirst. Her eyes scanned his closed ones, his perfect nose, his perfect lips, down, down, down from his lean arms, beautiful hands, his muscled legs, his little toes.

She rose, trying to vie against time, trying to slow down her actions so she could spend more time with one of the people she loved most in the world.

Pretty soon, she finished patting the blanket snugly around his chest and breathed. She placed her hands chastely on his shoulders, and relished the feel of them. She was going to be fifteen soon and she had someone special to love. He was here, not really in her arms, but close enough. Ginny was happy and content.

She leaned in so close that her breath made the few strands of hair that were splayed across his smooth forehead dance. And left a mark of her love there through her quick, but meaningful kiss.

Quietly, without any other unnecessary words or movements, she picked up the basin and the towel. The basin she would bring to the kitchen. The towel she would keep. As she left the room as noiselessly as she could possibly walk, Ginny missed an important thing that she should have seen.

For when she turned her back, at _that _very moment, Harry Potter's fears and worries stilled. And when his fingers touched that warmed spot where her lips connected with his skin, he smiled. The moonlight played on his face as her fingers did.

He slept.

**InBrilliantFireBurnsDesire**

So, how was it? Too cheesy? I'm sorry, people, for the really, _really, _REALLY long time before updating (A month plus a few more days)

Writing this chapter was really fun! And I loved the last part with Harry and Ginny. J Please review. Thank you very much. J


	7. Will You Hope For Me?

**Time Enough**

PG-13 [Language]

_When have I last updated? A millennium ago? Argh, I know I lose what little readers because I update so late, and my story's not really all that, but still…_

_After getting that off my back…I continue into the vast unknown._

_Here's chapter seven:_

* * *

The quickly descending sun had cast its familiar array of warm colors. Hues of orange, yellow and red filled the sky. But, Ronald Weasley noticed, the snow-capped mountains far from where he lay, remained the same. Icy cold. He wondered if that was where Hagrid had gone to with Madam Maxime?

It's just like what's happening, he decided. _With You-Know-Who actually alive, and his Death Eaters at large, and the Ministry in chaos, it would be nice to know something that hasn't changed amidst all of this. _

As the world turned right in front of his eyes, the mountains always were. They just . . . . were. It was sort of nice that he was sure about something, and that something being the mountains would always be there.

He'd never really paid much attention to the snowy tops of the mountains. Still…He knew he wasn't the only one who would be glad to feel secure about at least something in the middle of the trouble brewing in the very heart of the Wizarding world.

The grass beneath his body was dying. The grass all over the mound, which was supposed to be a hill, was dying. Ron was strangely reminded of how he felt back in his third year. When the dementors had flocked Hogwarts and all.

Flowers literally wilted as a dementor glided by, almost too gracefully for someone so… deadly.

Memories of his third year brought back thoughts of Sirius. So much had happened. It all passed by like a huge whirl. He remembered the fights with Hermione over Scabbers and Crookshanks. How Hagrid said she'd been in a right state, crying and coming down to his hut…

Ron closed his eyes, and put his hands beneath his head. He felt the soft wind rush by his hair, causing the top to ripple lightly. He'd been such an idiot. He still was one now.

_I'm going unstable. From mountains to Sirius to idiocy. What next?_

He supposed he was allowed to blame it on the teen stress and angst that were so popular among adults' conversations when the topic came to insolence. Confusion, more like. With his eyes still shut tight, he smiled slowly. Everything was so peaceful out here. No sodding Voldemort, or older brothers, or wounded best mates, or— or Hermione. . .

He hoped that he would get to see her one last time. Ron knew he wasn't supposed to be so morbid. But with Voldemort around, you couldn't help but to think quickly, and treasure every moment as if it were your last.

For others, this moment was when they took their last breath, or gazed at the world one last time. . . . You never knew what could happen.

He truly felt his innocence being robbed from him in the aftermath of all that had happened. This was serious business now. No more fun and games. He doubted if they could still go back to Hogwarts next year, without a care about what was going on in the outside world, and argue about Quidditch jovially while some frantically turned pages for a quiz on Potions.

This wasn't just another of their crazy yet exhilarating adventures any more. People got hurt, he could get killed anytime, his family members could mysteriously disappear at night and turn up the next morning dead.

It was the worst part in life, Ron decided. When reality sets in. Thoughts of winning the Quidditch House Cup, or acing a test in Herbology hardly stirred up his cheerfulness. Things, more like a group of Death Eaters getting stopped from murdering a family, or news on the Dark Lord's latest plans being sabotaged… Those were worth putting a brave front on.

There was hope for them, he knew it. But why did he feel so alone?

His eyes popped open. The sun was almost invisible, with only about a quarter of its glorious surface peeking through the clouds. _Nearly dark. . . ._

There was a sudden bout of yelling in the house, and many footsteps clambered audibly down the stairs. The tranquility of simply _being_ was broken as excited chatter rang out.

_Hang on. Is that Hermione's voice I hear?_

Severely shaking his head in his disapproval of letting too much thinking get to his head Ron remembered how his mum hadn't approved of his going out to the hill to think. She was extremely worried for the safety of her children, in these Dark times, but seeing as Ron had looked like he seriously needed time away from the house and that the one mile radius of protective magical wards had been extended to three miles radius, she allowed him to go.

For that, he mentally reminded himself to thank her profusely. He didn't get the chance to, a while ago, since at her words of permission, he'd bounded freely, running to the top of the hill (_mound_! His brain screamed), feeling as if his long cooped up spirit was finally getting the yearned freedom.

His bliss was nowhere to be found, at the moment. Ron was frustrated; his ruminating time wasn't going anywhere. His mind was going around in circles. He came out here to sort out his thoughts, and ended up with them being even more tangled up. His brain was an intricate object with lots of odd tweaks. Ron could honestly say he felt it going into overdrive.

The sigh he gave was carried away by the wind. _Bye? _His mind was called back home to planet earth from wherever it had strayed when his stomach rumbled, reminding him that he was indeed human, no matter how _earthy_ he felt at the moment, and his body demanded food intake at least five times a day in order to go about his usual romps, and would he mind putting a little food inside his long-forgotten tummy?

In Ron's case, a full half-day without any kind of snack or meal was a horror to his stomach, and the area around his solar plexus was aching a bit. He didn't mind it, for once. Ron was too busy just mulling over some facts in his head.

He was rather relieved when the noise in the house simmered down and he was alone with his thoughts again.

A twig snapped behind him. Probably only Ginny calling him for dinner. He wouldn't mind her. She was powerless without the aid of the threat of a Bat-Bogey Hex.

"Ron?"

The one word was spoken with untarnished dubiety. It was a voice he longed to hear all summer. The sensitive hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

Speedily, he stood up, swaying slightly out of balance as his left heel fell on top of a peculiarly shaped rock. In front of him stood his best friend, and (in his mind) his nastiest adversary.

"Hermione? What're you doing here? You're not supposed to come til—"

A flicker of hurt passed through her face and only then did Ron realize his words were spoken a tad bit more accusingly then he wished.

"My parents are being put under the Fidelius Charm, to keep them safe and protected against the Dark side. Even I don't know who the Secret-Keeper is. Dumbledore thought it safe for me to stay here with your family until the new term starts. I'm not to see my parents until after this war is finished. It wouldn't be safe. For any of us," her words contained an ugly mixture of ice and bitterness. Never a good combination.

He averted his gaze from her angry face and set it upon the gradually darkening horizon. Ron tried hard to think of something to say to make up for his blunder.

"How's Harry?" Hermione asked, breaking the quiet.

"Seriously, I don't know. We've been really worried. Madam Pomfrey said he'd taken some damaging potions," he said. "Dark ones," Ron added, stealing a glance hopefully.

She appeared withdrawn. Fatigued. "Ginny told me she's been taking care of him a lot. Must be really hard for her, huh?"

At his questioning expression, Hermione sighed impatiently. "Of course, she still harbors feelings for Harry. And seeing a person who you really care about like that… Well," she said with a tone of helplessness.

Ron tried to grasp the control of the situation that was quickly subsiding from his fingers like water. He didn't understand. "What about Dean…?"

"Honestly, Ron, don't you and Ginny ever just sit down and talk? They've broken up weeks ago. Apparently, Ginny told Dean that maybe they rushed into things a bit. They're still friends, though."

Seeing her roll her owlish brown eyes flared up his temper a bit. He bit his cheek inside to keep himself from retorting.

"She spends all the time writing in that ridiculous diary you gave her. Hermione, I admit, that was a bit tactless of you. Otherwise, she just stays in her room, when she's not helping Mum with Harry," he replied.

"Why was it tactless, Ron? There you go, gallivanting to your own conclusions without all the facts straight. We talked about it a lot, you know. I only gave it to her after making sure that she's absolutely all right with it. We've come to be very good friends, despite our age difference," she said stiffly.

Here they were, not five minutes in each presence, already arguing. Sighing jadedly, Ron decided he didn't want it today. He didn't want to shout or even raise his voice a little at Hermione. Right now, he just wanted to savor the pleasure of seeing her once more.

He sat down, a bit vigilantly, not making any sudden movements. Ron patted the spot next to him invitingly. She looked at him, surprise evident in her eyes, before taking her seat.

For a while, none of them spoke. Gradually, the awkwardness Ron feared would take over dissolved, and he found himself relaxing.

_Think, Weasley. What to talk about?_

He was saved the effort of thinking up a pathetic topic when Hermione turned to him concernedly. "How have you been, Ron?

How _had_ he been? It was a simple enough question. Why was he having such difficulty answering it?

"Just fine," he said, a bit too rough for someone who was supposed to be fine. And before he forgot his manners in her presence, "You?"

Hermione shrugged. "I'm really worried about Harry, though. His uncle's really horrid." She shivered visibly. For effect, or if she really felt chilled to the bone with the image of Vernon Dursley, Ron had no idea.

"Yeah…"

"First the death of…_Sirius_," she glanced around before muttering the last word, "and now this? I wonder how he can be taking it."

Ron twirled a half-brown, half-green blade of grass between his forefinger and thumb. "You're not alone in wondering, Hermione."

"Yeah… I just wish we could've done something to prevent it. Imagine how Harry feels, that we've let him down. That would be horrible, wouldn't it? I think he really felt that this summer was going to be different."

"It _is_ different. Just not in the way we expected. It may come as a surprise to you, but I feel terrible, too, you know."

She turned to him seriously. "As I told you awhile ago, I also thought everything would change. But it didn't. Harry's in there, his body trying hard to recover, and the next summer after this, it's just going to be the same again. His uncle will still hurt him, though I doubt as much as he hurt him now, and his aunt and cousin will still hate him. What will have changed then?"

Ron made an odd movement, something between a shrug and a shake of his head. A little bit of both. "I'd go mad if I were him. It's a wonder he hasn't yet. He hasn't woken up since the night he was brought here, and that was only to scream off names of unknown people that he most probably dreamed about, mind you."

"Yeah, Ginny told me," she shook her head despondently, her hair rustling slightly. "To cope with all this, and without a family? I see what you mean, Ron. I don't know how I'd be able to stand it if my parents were gone."

He kept quiet. The sun was fully gone by this time, and the beginnings of dusk were starting to show in the sky. Hermione must've noticed that they didn't have much time left to talk.

Hurriedly, she asked, "How's the Order holding up? I haven't heard a single thing since the last day of classes, you know how Dumbledore is about owl post. And after Moody's extra warnings, I can hardly just pen down my inquiries and send it off, can I? Add to that that I don't have an owl."

It was Ron's turn to shake his head. "I wouldn't know because they still hold meetings at… at 12 Grimmauld Place."

Hermione sensed that he was uncomfortable mentioning Sirius' name. She was, also. His death had come as a real blow to them, a rude awakening. She didn't say anything.

"Anyway, Mum said we're going to stay there until the end of summer. We're moving in a few days, I reckon," said Ron, watching a lone sparrow soar. "Something about it being more out of harm's way than the Burrow and more convenient."

Hermione stared at her friend. There was something different about him, a particular something had changed. She couldn't put her finger on exactly what. Ron felt her gaze land on him, and his ears began to redden, against his will. What was she staring at him for?

She couldn't pry her eyes off of him until he met her eyes. There, Ron found a strange sort of peace. Not unlike the one he had felt when he was alone just a few minutes ago.

He inhaled some air, relishing in the dewy smell of the grass. "I still can't believe that Harry was being abused without our knowing it. I thought that this summer would be different, now that the Order's back. I can't help but think that they forgot a bit about Harry…"

"A bit?" she scoffed, massaging her temples gingerly. "It's just horrible. When I arrived, and after everyone left to go back to what they were doing, I went to see him. He doesn't look good, Ron, and his injuries look far from healing, even the old ones."

"How can you tell?"

"They aren't scabbing over. Not even the oldest-looking wounds are anywhere near that stage. I'm betting it's safe to say that V-Voldemort is up with a new trick. I just hope it isn't one that would leave Harry, or anyone else for that matter, dead."

"Oh." Ron racked his mind desperately for something to alleviate the darkness quickly descending in their conversation. "Malfoy got tried a week ago, and he has a life sentence in Azkaban, with charges including 'lying to the most esteemed and prestigious Minister of Magic' and 'malicious actions towards minors'," he paused to snort, before continuing. "The malicious actions bit was all right, considering that it was Harry who was the minor involved, but the lying part? I nearly wet myself laughing when Dad told me that."

Hermione cracked a grin. Even though it was weak, he suddenly felt as if a heavy burden was being lifted from his shoulders. He couldn't explain why, though.

_That's my girl._

He blushed furiously, hoping she wouldn't notice. Hermione didn't. She was too busy staring into space.

"It _is_ quite a bit outlandish, considering the fact that Fudge was actually stupid enough to believe him. They didn't mention that in the trial, did they?" she said, smirking a little.

He sniggered again. "I don't think so, either. So. . . any idea where your parents are?"

"Haven't the foggiest. I just wish someone would tell me. I think I know who the Secret-Keeper might be, though."

"Oh, really?" Ron feigned an interested expression, much like the one Hermione always wore when she was answering in class. He dodged her flying hand. "I don't think it would be that great if someone told you where your parents are hiding. If Vol— oh, You-Know-Who caught you, he could force the information out of you. Then, what would happen?"

At first, it seemed as if she was going to glare at him, but then she decided against it. "I know. And that's mainly the reason why I _don't_ want to go. Don't think I haven't thought about it."

There she went again, turning his head in circles. "So you want to go, but you don't want to go? Make up your mind, Hermione!"

He didn't think that she liked the bossy tone in her voice very much.

"You'd do well to know, _Ronald_, that I have. Made my mind up, that is. That doesn't rob me of the right to want two different things, does it?"

It was a losing battle. It was always a losing battle with her. "I was just _asking_ if you really knew what you wanted. Apparently, you do!"

_Ronald?!_

With a revolted look, he stood up and turned to leave the grassy knoll. All intentions of storming off fled from hid head when a soft hand warmed a spot on his forearm.

"I'm sorry, Ron, I didn't mean to blow my top there."

He searched her face, for what? He didn't know. It just felt right that he looked into her eyes. There was anguish, anger, trepidation, and… was that_ repentance_?

_Don't get carried away, you daft prick. Since when have you been an expert at recognizing emotions? _

_Shut up._

"I'd really appreciate it, Ron, if we just stayed here for a while, and… talked. We have a lot to talk about."

It was a question. He answered it.

"All right then…" Ron trying to sound offhand, ". . . I'm sorry, too."

For a really uncomfortable moment, tension hung thickly in the air. Above them, the rapidly darkening sky had a half-full moon. The rolling clouds, however, covered its brilliant beams. Ron found that the snow on top of the mountains had a bluish tinge to them.

"Did you hear about Professor Lupin?"

The worry in her face suddenly intensified. "What about him? What's happened?"

The way she said it, Ron knew that she was almost fearful of the answer. He didn't want to be the one to break the news to her. She already looked like she was on the verge of an emotional breakdown, and Ron new that this would trigger it.

_I'll just have to choose my words carefully…_

"He's at St. Mungo's. Injured a bit gravely by a Death Eater, I think? Tonks is with him right now. But the situation's under control, Hermione. Don't worry, the Healers there are perfectly skilled and they'll fix Lupin up just like they healed Dad."

She groaned, making her seem so vulnerable and small to him. "It's starting already, Ron… The casualties will start over flowing at St. Mungo's, and even trained Healers in every part of the world will start to have too much patients in their hands to accommodate some more. The deaths will be outrageous, we'll never be sure just what his Death Eaters are capable of, Ron! Pretty soon, you won't even be able to recognize body after damaged body because each and every one's image is burned into your retina and—"

Ron looked scandalized; he wasn't capable of dealing with a hysterical Hermione at the moment… He was barely able to deal with his own troubles.

"Hermione, stop— No, we're ready this time— _don't you start crying—_ the Order's got a move on, no one will die—"

He choked on his own lies as Hermione's eyes suddenly brightened.

_There you've done it._

"How can you say that, Ron? How can you say that when you and I know that we can never be sure that when we go to sleep at night that we'll never wake up again because of some Death Eater raid? Of course people will die, people you could've hated, or cared about deeply, people who mattered very little or a lot, or— or— oh, I don't know!"

She stopped her ranting and turned away, Ron knew, before he would see her cry. She only turned sideways, so he had a prefect view of Hermione's tears falling silently. Each time she wiped at her face, a little bloke pounded hammers into his heart. How brave they were all trying to be.

He waited, his breath hitched in his throat, for her to calm down a bit, before speaking timidly, "Just—just let it all out, now, it'll make you feel loads better… Trust me."

"I'm sorry, Ron," Hermione looked up, then laughed nervously at herself, "I seem to be saying that a lot today…"

He let out a little embarrassed laugh. "S'all right, Hermione. It always is, anyway."

"It was a bit silly of me…" –she brought a finger very close to his lips, near enough to touch them, but not quite there yet, knowing from years of friendship that he was going to object loudly— "Shh. Yes, it was, Ron. Again, sorry."

He felt a little pang of disappointment when her finger dropped. "Like I said, just…let it all out. It helps," Ron added supportively.

She brought her legs up to her chest and hugged them. "Now the second war's starting, I just wonder. . . ." said Hermione.

"What?" He asked gently, so as not to provoke her into thinking he wanted to invade her privacy or anything.

It took a long time for her to answer. Ron waited patiently, something he wasn't really good at. Most of the time, the way he was always raring to go was what got him in fights with Hermione. Behind them, the numerous shadows danced, cast by the light from the Burrow. They didn't have much time now.

Mum would realize that they were still out, and would send Ginny to fetch them for dinner. Then, _everything_ would be ruined. The serenity of just being with Hermione under a blanket of stars.

"Will it ever be the same again?"

Somehow, without Hermione explaining to him what exactly she was talking about, Ron understood. It was complicated. He wasn't quite sure what to answer, and if he did manage to answer, would his words be what Hermione wanted to hear? His next words were thought through and through before they were spoken.

Ron shook his head a little. "I doubt it. There are lots of reasons why. Everything's changed so much. Too much, too fast. I feel like…" He scrunched his eyes up before trailing off. His juice was all dried up. Just like he said, too much, too fast.

"Like?" she urged him on.

Ron concentrated and tried to cover what he felt with words. Was it possible? It didn't feel like it was. Still, he tried his best.

"Like… we're in a completely different world. We can't go back to the way we used to be. It's all too different now. You, me, Harry, the Order, Mum, Dad…" he knew he was babbling, but he couldn't find it in himself to stop. "We're in way over our heads in this one, Hermione. We're too involved. I can't find a way out."

"I know what you mean," Hermione said so quietly that he had to strain his ears in order to catch her words. A stray lock of her chestnut brown hair fell into her eyes, but she didn't put it behind her ear. Ron had a weird yearning to reach out and fix it.

He flattened the ground in front of him, imagining it was the Dark Lord's face. Suddenly, with his sudden burst of creativity, he pounded harder on the ground. "What really gets me mad is the fact that in wars such as these, there will be people who will die, and people who live. It's almost like it _needs_ to happen."

She turned to look at him. Her eerily calm eyes pierced into his soul. Ron shivered unnecessarily, rubbing his palms together.

"We can change it. It doesn't need to be a fact."

The raw hope in her voice cut him like daggers. He knew inside she was hoping for a miracle, something that never came. It broke his heart to see her there, looking at him with hints of unbeatable courage that was what made her a Gryffindor.

"It's too damn hard! It's in human nature to crave for the thrill of war; it's in our bloods. But not everyone wants to die. But they don't have a choice, do they? Good people over centuries have been trying to make a difference, trying to change the _fact—_" he pulverized the earth bitterly, "—that not everyone can live. It's like that, Hermione! It just is."

"Are you afraid?" Hermione asked, her voice taking on a quality of tenderness that was quite rare for her.

Ron's eyes trailed over her face, searching for an answer to _why_ did she have to torture him? Exactly why?

_Are you afraid, Hermione? _

The words nearly spilled out of his mouth before he remembered that while answering a question with one of your own might save your neck in death-defying situations, these circumstances did not really apply to the life-threatening category, and it would be wiser to just tell the truth.

_You've done it already tonight, mate, more than you were willing to. Tell the truth just once more, Weasley. _

"Terrified like hell," he said, unable to fight the sheepishness that had come into his voice. "Are— are you?"

Was it just him, or did she move closer? _Really _closer?

What was _that_ all about?

"I would be stupid not to be afraid, Ron. I'm terrified because this is a situation that I don't think we can ever have control over. We'll just have to fight it in the best way we can," Hermione paused to draw some breath, "I'm afraid for so much people. I guess— I guess if there were a choice between Voldemort killing me or him doing away with anybody I care about…" She gestured with her hands wildly as she spoke, Ron feared she would smack him (or herself!) accidentally, "Well— well, I think you know what I'd pick."

"Would you die for me, then?"

He said them before he even thought about saying anything.

_Idiot! _

He mentally whacked himself before he decided to give himself a real one. Ron's hand would've made its journey to his forehead if an outside force hadn't landed on his forearm, giving him a strange feeling of déjà vu.

_This moment has happened before._

"I would, Ron. I'd die for you gladly."

It would be a lie to say Ron wasn't taken aback. He very nearly lost his balance (and he was sitting). The intensity of her warmth, the depth of those simple syllables. They rolled over him like the endless crashing waves of an ocean.

For a second, he was completely clueless as to what to do. Then, suddenly, what he had to do was engraved in his mind. It was all he could think about. It was clearer than anything he knew before in his life. He gently untangled her fingers from his wrist, and brought his own up to her face.

He didn't look in her eyes, didn't want to see if there was anger or confusion. After a few breathless moments, her stray lock of hair was behind her ear again. His fingers were leaving their destination, and already heading for Hermione's shoulder.

Ron swore he felt a strange calmness within him, even greater than the one he felt when he was watching the sun set alone, and thinking about the mountains and their constancy, when his fingers dropped lightly on her shoulder. Hermione's head swiveled to the spot where his hand and her t-shirt connected.

Suddenly, he had his arms wrapped around her in a rough hug. As her hands met firmly over his neck, Ron found himself saying into her hair, his voice a bit muffled, but the meaning going in her heart and mind, clearly as crystal, "And I for you, Hermione. Anywhere, any time."

She nodded into his chest.

They pulled back a few heart-stopping moments later, as they heard footsteps scuffling along the track to the hill. He flashed her his best shot at a grin, before turning to shout at Ginny, who looked very cross at having Ron's spit fly into her mouth, which she'd opened to tell them that dinner was ready.

**

* * *

**

_Somewhere in Athens_

Bill Weasley swore violently as he knocked over the colossal pile of scrolls perched atop the highly polished surface of ivory. The owner had repeatedly stated that it was one of a kind, that nothing else could match the price of the history in that table, but Bill didn't give a damn. A table was a table, nothing more, nothing less.

_Damned pieces of paper._

Still, those papers were of great value, and Bill put them back on the tabletop with gritted teeth, and he tried to subjugate the urge to throw them into the dying flames. It was highly tempting, but many people would not be pleased with him. Not pleased at all.

"Weezley?"

He spun on the balls of his feet, trying not to look as though just a few seconds ago, he was intent on actually shoving the precious scrolls into the burning wood.

Fleur Delacour, old rival of Harry Potter, and a highly enchanting young witch, and Amintar, the man Dumbledore had introduced to him just mere days ago, stood at the doorway, their eyes questioning his. He patted the stack of papers uneasily, a sign to tell them that he was not doing anything wrong.

The Greek man laughed good-naturedly. "Just move the ivory table to your left. It would save us much more time, and our tempers won't be driven to the point of rising unnecessarily."

Almost automatically, his neck began to heat up as Fleur giggled daintily. A scowl found its way to his countenance, and he quietly cast his magic over the table.

His ego massively wounded by the soft peals of the part-Veela, he turned to face Amintar.

_If only I weren't so smitten with her, what I would _do_!_

"All right. That's over. What do we have planned today, Mr. Calaminra?"

The older man winced, in confusion and darkness. There was definitely something hidden inside the flinch, which told Bill that he had most unfortunately struck a nerve. "Do me a favor, Weasley."

"Which is..?"

"_Don't_, I repeat, do not call me that. Amintar's fine. Whenever someone says "Mr. Calaminra", I look behind my shoulder in fear of seeing my father coming up behind me."

Fleur was silenced, and the laughter on her sharp European features were entirely erased, her sudden seriousness caused by the incisiveness in the tenor of Amintar. Dumbledore's parting words ran through Bill's and Fleur's minds. Calaminra was not a man you wanted on the wrong side, he wasn't someone you could just throw bloody sticks at and expect to come out of the encounter alive.

For a split second, pure panic washed over the two young people. But to their obvious relief, the Grecian wasn't one who let things of such inconsequentiality to get to him deeply. Yes, he was a wise man, with knowledge and an understanding that bypassed witches and wizards his own age. Yes, he knew tragedies like no other, he had been tested by life with trials too painful to recall.

"Sure… Amintar," Bill smiled uncertainly.

The older wizard grinned back. "To answer your inquiry, Bill, we'll discontinue our study of prophecies that have been deemed false. Otherwise, known to us as prophecies that have been denied over the centuries."

"But, sir, we, of ze Wizarding world, and ze Muggle world, 'ave not known any prophezeez that 'ave not been followed, exzept that of Merlin and Arthur," objected Fleur.

"If you think that I am unaware of that, Ms. Delacour, then you are gravely mistaken. To defy a prophecy that is real in every aspect, and that has come out of one who is blessed with the most precious gift to See is a thing of such difficulty, that only Merlin has been known to do it."

Bill contemplated this over his head. He knew it very well that already, the prophecy they were trying to break concerned the best friend of his brother. Bill had met Harry briefly, and conversed with him quite well during the span of the fourteenth summer of Ron.

Amintar continued at their silence. "The purpose of your revision over the books on prophecies was to let this little, seemingly irrelevant fact be drilled into your minds. At your hidden despondencies inside, I can see that the purpose has been fulfilled. Therefore, we will stop our study. It is pointless to go on."

He strode over to the scrolls, and took a number in each hand. "We all know that the only way to stop He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named lies in the secrets of the prophecy that a certain Sybil Patricia Trelawney made more than a decade ago. Members of the Order, who are indebted with utmost trust, have been informed of this prophecy. You, being part of the Order of the Phoenix, know this prophecy, too."

Bill and Fleur nodded, reminding Amintar of the way the bobble headed puppies on the back of old peoples' cars nodded. He fell silent. He wanted his "team" to be able to take initiative, to be able to think for themselves beyond what was necessary.

"We are trying to break it, then?" Bill asked.

He said it with more definition than one should ask a question with. He knew the answer, he knew what Amintar would say, and he didn't like it at all. What was there to like?

"Yes. It will be hard an—"

"We can do eet!" Fleur said excitedly. As Bill looked at her during her outburst, he realized that she was doing this for a reason. Maybe for reasons he couldn't understand. But he would ask her. And then, he would share his own reasons for wanting to help Harry, a boy who was not of great importance to him. Perhaps they could help each other.

"Trust us, Amintar."

The hope that lit up his aged eyes told Bill that Amintar did. It was the kind of people like Bill and Fleur that made the Greek go on living, and continuing what he did, because he knew that there was still hope. They could still defeat the Dark side.

"We will be scouring numerous books for spells that, in any way, might help Potter to survive long enough to vanquish He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Anything that you think can be used, in whatever way possible, must be written down."

It sounded to Bill as though Amintar thought that Harry would die, with the Dark Lord defeated or not. It was clear to one that Harry wasn't strong in the physical world, but mentally, his courage and strength was undeniable.

"We _will_ find a way. I promised the Order, and I promised Lily that I wouldn't let her son die. Promises don't mean a thing in the world we live in today. But they do to me."

His voice was firm, it masked the real emotion that he was feeling. Bill heard the fear in his voice, he heard the helplessness that Amintar tried so fiercely to quell. He was thankful to the older man for trying so hard to be brave, for all of them.

"I'll inform Albus of what we are about to do. We won't start it today. You can explore the town, buy a few things, look at the nonexistent sights. Do your own things today."

The quiet thuds of the door against the doorway was the only sound that resonated in the room after Amintar left.

Bill rubbed his tired eyes, trying valiantly not to seem weak in front of Fleur, who was trying to appear nonchalant. In the past few days, he had been absolutely engrossed in finishing all the books the Greek man had assigned them to read. Everything that was written had sparked up an interest in Bill that nothing had done in the longest period of time. He had been running on a high where he had the desire, that seemed most impossible to feed, to know just a little bit more.

Bill literally felt the adrenaline that had been rushing through his veins to replace the extreme paucity of rest ebb away with a frustrating speed his brain couldn't catch up with. He didn't quite have the strength to keep his straight posture up, trying to forget the innumerable instance when his mother had drilled into his mind that the way he slouched, or didn't slouch, was of utmost importance, since it was undeniable that everyone who was of high class looked down on those whose shoulders hunched even the tiniest bit.

At that moment, he was too tired to give a damn about what anyone thought about him. It was clear in his mind that all he wanted to do was sleep, and get lots of it. He was already walking towards the door when Fleur's voice broke through his fatigue-induced stupor.

"Weezley?"

Bill couldn't understand why she refused to call him by her first name. It made her seem almost haughty, exactly how he pictured those from the French lands were.

"What?"

"Are you not afraid to die?"

_What a question to pop._

The way she said it flattened out all images Bill had of her being conceited. It was hard to believe that she, Fleur Delacour, who, the way Bill saw it, never once broke her stride to give up her integrity, who was always so self-assured and confident, sometimes overly so, was speaking in such a manner that implied to Bill that for one of the few times in her life, she was unsure about something, that she didn't know how to get control over the situation.

"Why do you ask?"

He didn't want to readily admit that he was terrified shitless each time he had to face the ruthless servants of Voldemort, that he loathed the feeling of not knowing whether he would live another day to see the people he loved every time he went into another mission for the Order.

She seemed unperturbed at the injected insolence in his voice.

"Do not people ask if zey want to know? Is that not reason enough?"

_Good point._

But now, when he mused over it, if he were too afraid to die, then his supposed cowardice would mask what little courage and fearlessness he had left, to go into war, and to protect the lives of those he treasured.

"I suppose… Do you want an honest answer?"

"A fool would want a dishonest answer. I will depend on you not to make a fool out of me."

So, there _was_ more behind those hypnotizing baby blues of hers, Bill cogitated with a bit of consternation. He knew it was wrong to think that she was just another stereotype of a blonde, but that was exactly the kind of image that she gave.

Maybe she was lucky that her looks were _very_ deceiving. It would be good help for the Order.

"Well," he said, stalling for time to think of a jocose answer. He came up with none, and conjectured that the truth was the path to take. He knew that no matter how hard he tried, he could never bring himself to lie about anything to anyone. So why start now?

"Death isn't a thing I have much qualms about. I can die any way, it'll still be all right. But I wouldn't want to die now. Not while Voldemort is still around. I won't stand for it. I'll do whatever it takes to help bring his dark reign to an end. And I will make sure that when he's down, he stays down."

Fleur looked him up and down, and Bill had the uncanny feeling that she was trying to scrutinize whether he really was being honest, or if he really was just falsifying his real feelings to give off the impression that he was a heroic young man, tanned from hours in the Egyptian sun.

He just sincerely wished she was a good judge of character; Fleur Delacour thinking that he was just another bastard that the world seemed to be so full of, coming from the cold isles, and lying through his teeth was something that he didn't unerringly lust after.

"I, too, pray zat I will not be struck dead by some of ze foolish men of zis Dark Lord. I am not worried to die. I do not fear death. But my family, back in France…I wish zey never will feel ze cold ze Death Eaters bring wiz zem," she ran her picayune hands over her arms, which her damask robes failed to cover.

"I 'ave felt eet. I do not wish zat my younger sister will ever 'ave to fight for 'er life. I wish zat my muzzer and Gabrielle will never know what exactly it feels to face ze horror of ze Dark side. I want to do ze fighting myself. Zat is why I do this," Fleur gestured around the room miserably. "I 'ad to leave ze safety of France to protect zem. As long as zere is 'ope, then I will fight. I 'ave started something; and I _will_ finish it."

Haughtiness definitely dissolving into a mere nothingness. Bill's hand left the door, and with it, his intention of leaving for his quarters departed. He wanted to get to know this young woman in front of him, who stood so defiantly against the powers of the Dark side.

"Fleur…" The name seemed to come so naturally to his tongue. "If I can call Amintar by his first name, can't you call me by mine?"

She looked taken aback. "Why do you want me to call you zat?"

"Can a person not want anything without having to have a reason?" He challenged.

The seconds stretched out like forever, as Fleur fought an internal battle. Bill was afraid that she would snap back at his annoying philosophical saying that was made up on the spot, but she proved him wrong. Instead, a weary smile passed through the many gates that led to her true soul.

"Good enough, Weezley… I mean, Bill," she said, still smiling.

He felt his face muscles pull up into a smile of his own. He felt ready to take a stab at death. "What are you going to do today?"

Death chose not to bite back. "I will contribute to the local community…"

"Oh?" One eyebrow went up. Way up.

"Oui," she laughed, "I'll be shopping today. I'll buy Gabrielle some of ze wonderful bonbons that we do not 'ave in France. I like it 'ere. Greece is quite well-endowed, eez zat 'ow you say it?"

He nodded kindly. "Your accent is still quite heavy, but other than that, your English vocabulary is improving greatly."

She looked like she needed the encouragement. It turned out to be true. Fleur's already pretty face seemed to glow with her ecstatic happiness.

"Thank you, Weez—I mean, Bill."

When she turned to go, he felt a heavy pang of disappointment take over his heart.

_What did you expect, Weasley? For you to become instant friends? _

It turned out that she _did_, in a way, want to become instant friends, because, swiveling around, she asked, "Would you like to come wiz me?"

He nodded eagerly, and his enthusiasm must've been apparent since she took one look at him and let out peals of soft laughter. She strode over to the ivory table which, just mere minutes ago, had been the most cursed cause of his annoyance, and fixed their work.

"I'll just write down where we'll be, so Amintar won't think that Death Eaters have gotten to us."

Fleur giggled again, seeming less like the older woman she had to grow up so fast into in the past year, and more like the young schoolgirl Bill remembered from the Triwizard tournament.

"Come on, zen, Bill. Greece awaits us."

With a sudden flash of daring, he took her hand in his and pulled a stunned but pleased Fleur Delacour out into the busy streets of Athens.

* * *

A distant voice was calling him back to the present. Where was he? How come every part of him hurt? He couldn't open his eyes, it hurt too much to move, to breath.

"Lupin, John Remus…"

White. Everything was white. How could a person not go blind? There was a figure, something purple, short, just purple, against the whiteness. Why was everything the color of snow?

"…lycanthropic…"

It hurt his eyes. It was too bright. Might as well go back to sleep, he thought, before closing his eyes, and waiting for the darkness to consume him fully.

"…admitted into the Creature-Induced Injuries floor, room D…"

"Oh, no, you don't, Lupin! Wake up!"

_Ouch!_

The purple shaped monstrosity had slapped his cheek bitingly. It stung where the blow had landed, but he didn't have the power over any of his arms to massage his face. He didn't have the power to cry out in the pain that had suddenly enveloped him, either. Where was he? What was he doing there? And just what was wrong with him?

The person (at least he thought it was a person) drew nearer, and waved a hand confusingly over his blurry eyesight. The quick, jabbing movements increased the agonizing pain that was his headache, and he moaned with all the power he could muster in his current state of weakness.

He just wanted to disappear blissfully into the darkness that was calling his name so loudly. Tempting ribbons of peace wove around his body, and pulled him farther into the ecstasy-filled sleep he so desperately craved. He was too tired to think, or do anything else. All that was clear to him was that he didn't need the pain, nor the befuddlement. Rest was what he craved, escape from the pain was what he desired.

Eyes so full of sleepiness started to droop with a will of their own, and he prepared himself to be sucked into the glorious crepuscule.

"Wake _up_, Remus! Up, up, up!"

The annoying voice just refused to give up. The annoying voice that was so familiar.... He scrutinized his mind for missing details, for anything to help him remember.

In a formidable rush too strong for someone in his condition, everything came back to him. The rage he had felt whilst fighting the Death Eaters, the equilibrium that had engulfed him completely when faced against the venomous fangs of the gargantuan snake, the unadulterated euphoria at seeing James, Sirius and Lily, and the nullity he had felt while he fell into the inevitable nothingness that waited for him as he was bitten viciously, as his blood gushed all over the stunningly intricate fangs that incised him, as his insides were literally splayed all over the battle ground...

Oh, God, seeing James and Sirius again. It was so much more different thank looking at them in the pictures, which he had done so often in the times he was alone. It was more real than anything he had ever known, and what he had felt had struck him harder than any blow in his life.

Had he really seen them? Or had he been just hallucinating in the heat of the moment when the serpent stroke? Had they really smiled at him, in that gentle manner that only the ones who had finally come to accumulate true happiness can use? Had they really told him to hold on just a bit longer, to be strong for the world, for Harry and for them? Or had he just been hearing voices? Seeing things?

Blood went deeper than family. They were his brothers, the sole reason why he just didn't kill himself whenever he felt particularly depressed because of his lycanthropy. They made up the anchor in Remus' raging sea of deep sadness and anger. They held him back when what his mind really craved with a passion of darkness was to catapult into the world of the crazed werewolf inside of him, a world of confusion, and immense feelings of being misunderstood, a world that Remus John Lupin, the _sane_ Remus John Lupin, never wanted to enter ever again.

He was too tired to function. The darkness beckoned…

"He's awake again. Healer Illawe! Healer Illawe! HEALER ILLA--"

"For the love of all that is magical, shut up, Tonks!"

He had successfully avoided being rendered deaf for kingdom come. He had finally realized that he was in St. Mungo's, and the purple-haired woman was Tonks, and that he was about to have his sense of hearing permanently stolen for him when he'd shouted at her to keep quiet. In the angriest possible way.

She approached him carefully, and her eyes were doleful. She tried to cover her resentment, but her pathetic attempt at self-control was pitifully just that. Pathetic.

"Watch where you scream your bloody head off, Lupin," Tonks growled dangerously.

His brain registered the fact that he was in the middle of a crisis. To laugh or to cry, he did not know what else to do. He just wanted the boisterous woman, namely Tonks, to be apprehended by the Aurors who were supposed to be protecting innocent witches and wizards.

_Help me, dear gods above._

"Oh, like you didn't blast your own bloody head off right beside _my_ ear?"

Quick to anger, as most people who weren't of wise age were, Tonks' temper flared up like the butt of a cigarette just meant to be lit. Not of wise age, indeed.

Remus knew that from the way her mouth opened that she would have begun screaming again if the harassed Healer Illawe hadn't run into the room in a frenzy, and beaten Tonks to it.

"What's this I hear? Ear-piercing screams, in my ward?"  
  
Remus didn't dare point out that she was also a participant of the screaming she was so deftly referring to. He didn't think he would come out of the experience alive.

"Young lady! This might be a public place, but that does not entitle you to break the tranquility of the ward! There are sick people here, resting, and should you fail to be sensitive to the needs of others, I will have to ask you to leave!"

He possessed the courage to stand in front of one of the most leviathan snakes to slither on the sinned soil of the world, but he wasn't about to counter against the Healer that Tonks was currently shooting darts at. And he most certainly wasn't about to point out that she was also breaking the tranquility of the room by shouting at Tonks for breaking the tranquility. At least not in this lifetime. Probably not also in the next.

He wanted to see if the other occupants in the room were as bothered by the two squalling women as he was. There were no other people in the room, save the two members of the Order, and the utterly perplexed Healer.

He was just settling back into the cozy feathers of the pillows propped behind him to luxuriate in the fight that seemed to progress when the Healer shut her mouth abruptly, and the fact that there was no arguing with someone like Tonks seemed to nestle quite snugly in her mind, and she started stomping off, her white-encased feet making the loudest of noises on the dust-free tiles.

Remus started to genuinely contemplate whether the Ministry should have made a law prohibiting Healers from wearing shoes that would "break the tranquility", if their exuberantly loud voices wouldn't.

_How _did_ Arthur manage to spend Christmas here? I've barely been here five minutes!_

However, the silent inquiries running rapidly in his head were cut off as brusquely as Healer Illawe left.

"Remus! Merlin, that was mighty stupid of you!"

She was yelling again. Did she have to do it so loudly? What ever happened to being quiet around those who were hurt and lying prone on a hospital mattress?

"You could've _moved_, just a little to the right—or cast a spell to blast it away, or whatever! You're a _wizard_! That's why you have magic, you idiot! To cast spells!"

He was too used to her shouting that he didn't get worked up about it this time. Quite the contrary… In fact, it was a bit of a humdrum for him, seeing as he'd been through different versions of Tonks' screeching voice numerous times past.

Remus knew that it would only be a matter of seconds before she ran out of the juice that was subsequently providing her energy for shrieking her heart out.

"So _tactless_ of you! So _stupid_! Ugh, Remus, you made us worry! What in heaven's name made you stay rooted to the spot, Lupin? That is _not_ how a good fighter is! I doubt you are one!"

_Oh, so she's going on the track of the army general now, is she?_

"Tell me, were you possessed?! I swear, Remus, if you do that one more time—"

He'd had quite enough.

"You think that I would want to have my sides ripped viciously to shreds by a merciless serpent again? You should try it, _Nymphadora_, it's quite fulfilling! Then, you'll want to do it again, and again, and again—"

He shouldn't've said that. _Nymphadora_. He just secured himself a most enjoyable dive off the plank.

"God, you annoy the hell out of me, Lupin! Just shut up for once in your life! For one second, would you just shut your trap—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!"

The anger in his eyes dissipated a little as he saw Moody, Arthur and Kingsley enter the room. The one who had interrupted the livid tirade of Tonks was Moody, who laughed a bit harshly when he saw Remus' confusion.

"Your quarrel seemed to be leaning a tad bit too far on the precarious side, Lupin. Keep that feisty girl of yours at bay at all times."

The flames that had died when the three newcomers entered came alive in Tonks' eyes once more. Shacklebolt, knowing a danger sign when he saw one, muttered a Silencing Charm, much to the chagrin of Tonks, and to the palpable reprieve of the werewolf.

"What the hell are you talking about, Mad-Eye? She's just a kid."

Arthur grinned suggestively at Tonks. "Way older man, eh, Tonks?"

She lunged at him, as a predator would at its most adverse prey, and, chuckling, Arthur slanted to the side just in time to escape the murderous witch. Though getting quite old, and not as fast as he used to be, Arthur still possessed some mastery over the skills of an Auror, and he was still quite agile.

"So, Remus, I was in the same boat this Christmas. Tell me, does your blood gush like mad when the Healers try to change the dressings?"

Lupin swore that Arthur was more cheerful at the prospect of having someone experience the same thing he did than Lupin would've liked.

"I wouldn't know, I've only just woken up, _thanks to someone's ceaseless screaming_," he shot a sinister glance at the struggling Tonks, who was fighting against a Binding Charm, care of the wonderful Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"Well, if you need any therapy after getting out of the hospital, you can call me," Arthur said jovially.

Remus looked queerly at the older man. "I think I'll be able to walk fine, Arthur."

Mr. Weasley laughed good-naturedly, his laughter bouncing off the walls and reverberating around the otherwise empty room. "Not _that_ kind of therapy, Lupin. I had nightmares, y'know. Every night, no rest _at all_."

His chortling was cut short, however, by the sudden rasping of Moody. "All right, gents, keep it down... Wouldn't want that troll of a woman to come here again, would you?"

Kingsley sent a meaningful glance at Tonks. "Should I take the charms off, Mad-Eye?"

Remus felt sheer panic grip his heart and mind. "Dear gods, not yet! Let me revel in the placating peace before it gets shattered again by the lovely soprano of our dear Nymphadora."

That did it. Tonks fought tooth and nail against the Silencing Charm, her screams somewhat muffled, but still audible.

_Entertainment that will be rendered unmatchable_, Remus thought with a lingering taste of satisfaction, before Moody spoke again, his voice as rough as the surface of sandpaper.

"After all I tell you, Lupin, you still think that you have the balls to face anything standing? _CONSTANT VIGILANCE! _Remember that, Lupin! How many times have I repeated it incessantly?"

Moody's barking had to rival with the deafening resonance of some mechanical contraption that had come alive at that moment, and the insufferable tallyhos of Tonks. He was straining to be heard over the din, nearly shouting.

Arthur stole a quick peep at his watch, and was already halfway out of the room when he said over his shoulder, "Afraid to run, but I must, Remus. Talk to me about the therapy! I have this good technique, really helpful--"

The look of liberation on the redhead's face as he practically ran out of the room wasn't clandestine from Remus.

Kingsley was already by Remus' side, shaking his hand, and saying something so blurred against the whirring of the machines outside in the Muggle world, that it was damn near impossible to decipher.

"WHAT?" Remus shouted, hopelessly trying to be heard over the rambunctious purring of a new day for the fresh machinery.

Kingsley, too, seemed to be getting just a bit too weary of their fellow member's intolerable vociferations, as he just looked pityingly at Remus, running out of the ward.

_Good God! I need a tranquilizer! _

"Lupin. Duty calls, Dumbledore needs to see me about something." Remus strained to hear what Mad-Eye was saying. "Just heal that damn bite of yours quick, so you can get the hell outta here, and onto the battle fields, where you rightfully should be."

He was nodding now, and Moody was getting farther and farther away from site, leaving behind the squalid prisoner that was Remus John Lupin, alone with the worst punishment fate could ever condemn a person to.

"And remember, Lupin…"

This was it. The eternal words of the legendary Mad-Eye Moody. Lupin cracked a tiny smile. His head screamed it along with Moody.

_CONSTANT VIGILANCE!_

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE! Take it easy, mate."

And he was gone. Remus sighed deeply, sadly, desperate for someone to make the high-pitched girl shut up. He had to try and do something. _Take initiative. Don't be afraid. _That was what Gryffindors were known for.

"Tonks! Tonks—All right, all right! You can have the spells off if you shut your mouth!"

She sent him a withering glare, and her shoulders sagged a little. It was obvious that she, too, had been spent. It would be a rara avis if she screamed continuously, just like she had done so, and still have had energy left.

"_Finite Incantatem._"

Tonks' slender fingers loped over the supple crevasses of her lips instantaneously, and her limbs indulged visibly in being gratis to do what she wished to once more. When her body finally finished scouring over each function to make sure they still worked, and that she was still intact, she turned around to look at Remus.

He was copiously set for another bout of her screaming, but she just looked at him warily, like she had looked at him so many times before since they had met each other through the Order. This time she wasn't smiling.

"I could've have controlled myself, you know," the sullenness in her voice struck him hard.

_Who knew, Lupin? Maybe, if you gave her the chance..._

"Enjoyed screaming your heart out?"

She sat down on the chair beside his bed. Lupin thought she looked liked she could have done well in the bed. "Not really. It _was_ great fun to drive Kingsley away, though."

Remus was elated that she wasn't taking it in too much of a bad way. "Imagine, Tonks, you managed to accomplish what many Death Eaters have failed to do…"

Tonks laughed, and he was happy to note that it wasn't mirthless, or sarcastic.

_Good old Tonks._

A pacific taciturnity came over the both of them. For Remus, it seemed as if everything was all right with her, but looks _were_ deceiving. In the next few minutes that ensued the silence, Tonks' mind was working with speed, whirring with thoughts, some pleasant, others, not so.

_I guess that when Remus got hurt, it was sort of a turning point. This isn't just another game. It's getting serious, people I care about are getting hurt. I'm just tired of war. And it hasn't even been more than a year yet! But I'm already done with it. I want nothing to do with war, or bloody Voldemort. Sod them all! Let them rot in a hellhole, manifested with shit and all…_

While her vile judgments ran through her mind, Remus was thinking something along the same lines.

_Tonks doesn't seem as spirited before, but… why should I care? Well, I do, and that's that. She's my friend, and we're in this together, we can't afford to lose anyone. This war is sickening, and it's ruining so many things for all of us. Our children's futures, what will be of them? Voldemort, you are one sick bastard._

Finally, with a bit of timidity in her tone, she asked, "Will it ever end, Rem?"

Somehow, some way, he knew what she was talking about. It just clicked in his mind.

_See what war can do to people..._

He retained some of the quiet for as long as he could, before she made a little impatient noise that made him look into her eyes. The verdant hues were hauntingly frightened, but he could see her determination was still alive. He didn't think anything could ever drown her resolve to bring down the dark.

"Don't call me Rem… I think it will."

She gave a tired sigh, running her fingers through her surprisingly soft hair. "It gets a bit old after a while, doesn't it, Rem?"

He smiled wryly inside, but kept a stoic expression outside. She would never give something up, once she set her mind to it, not even something as petty as calling him 'Rem'.

"I give up, call me whatever you want," said Lupin, and adjusted the shabby hospital robes, which itched in some unmentionable places, "And, yes. I get tired of it, too."

She laughed, but the mirthless sound sent uncomfortable jolts up his spine. "It's times like these that make me wonder if in ten years, I'll still be around with the people I care about now. You never know…"

Tonks didn't have to say it, but Remus knew. She was afraid that she would be left alone, after everything finished. It was so much worse than being dead.

"Let's face the truth, Tonks," he began, trying to keep his voice even, and with a burst of emotion he didn't know he had, Lupin said, "I'm not getting any younger, but I'll be here for you forever."

_Friend to friend…_

She glanced at him, some of her worst worries alleviated by his comforting words. "Me, too, Rem. Count on that."

Remus smiled, all in all, it had been a good day. "I will."

**

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_The arms of love encompass you with your present, your past, your future; the arms of love gather you together. _

- _Southern Mail_

_ Antoine de Saint-Exupery_

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_I apologize, because in Chapter 5, I put there "Andrew Dolohov", when Carmine goes, "Remember the years, Andrew…" or something like that. Anyway, it's supposed to be Antonin. Once again, my apologies. _

A few sentences/words on my story would really brighten my day! Por favor, review! I'm a pathetic little mishap, so wouldn't you please press that little button over there, down there, and make me happy? I love reviews! Crave 'em. Flames are welcome. I'd enjoy them. This is not open to Perez.


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